THE #21/1 

AMERICAN SPEAKER: 

BEING 

A COLLECTION OF PIECES 

IN 

PROSE, DIALOGUE, AND POETRY; 



FOR EXERCISES IN DECLAMATION, OR FOR OCCASIONAL 
READING IN SCHOOLS. 



BY CHARLES NORTHEND, 

PRINCIPAL OF THE EPES SCHOOL, SALEM, MASS. 



PUBLISHED BY HALL & DICKSON. 

NEW-YORK: A. S. BARNES & CO. 
BOSTON : W. J. REYNOLDS & CO. 

1848. 



SYRACUSE: 



\J 









Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 

CHARLES NORTHEND, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



STEREOTYPED BY 

GEORGE A. CURTIS; 

NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERY, 
BOSTON. 



5C^ 
Hi 



PREFACE. 

Although the exercise of declamation has, of late, received 
more attention in schools than was formerly devoted to it, 
still it is true that less consequence is attached to it than its 
real importance demands. The advantages of frequent prac- 
tice in "speaking" are so many and so great, that it should 
receive more prominence, in all our schools. If scholars, at 
quite an early age, should be trained in the rehearsal of 
pieces, as a regular school duty, we think it would tend to 
produce a degree of freedom, force, and naturalness in read- 
ing, which could be obtained in no other way ; and if the 
very "^-orable influence it exerts in promoting distinctness 
and energy, in this and other branches, was the only benefit 
to be derived from its practice, it would be entitled to particu- 
lar consideration. 

But there are other advantages resulting from the exercise ; 
and not the least in importance is that which comes from the 
habit of committing selections to memory, — a custom much 
less common than formerly, but none the less beneficial. 

The compiler of this volume has endeavored to make such 
a collection of pieces as will meet the wants of schools in the 
department under consideration. He has taken several selec- 
tions which have been long before the public, but their merit 
is such as to entitle them to a permanent rank among lessons 
for declamation. Some of the pieces possess interest only 



as adapted to occasional circumstances. It lias been a lead- 
ing design of the compiler to exclude such pieces as breathe a 
highly martial spirit ; and while in some there may be a de- 
gree of humor, it will be found that most of them inculcate 
wholesome sentiments. A volume of similar size, composed 
exclusively of dialogues, will be published in a few weeks, in 
which will be inserted exercises of greater length and variety. 

It has not been deemed essential or important to insert 
rules and directions, because books, abounding in such rules, 
are already numerous, and because it is believed that the 
teacher can impart all needed instruction more clearly and 
efficiently than can be given by any printed directions. 

With the earnest hope that the book may be both accepta- 
ble and useful, the compiler commends it to the attention of 
his professional brethren, and to the use of those for whose 
special pleasure and benefit it has been prepared. 



CONTENTS. 

No. Authors. Page. 

1. Importance of Oratory, Knowles, 9 

2. Free Schools, the Glory of New England, . Story, 10 

3. The Nature of True Eloquence, D. Webster, 11 

4. Conclusion of a Discourse at Plymouth, . " .... 12 

5. The American Indian, C. Sprague, 13 

6. Address of Brutus, Shakspeare, 15 

7. One Century after Washington, Anon., 16 

8. The Contrast, « 17 

9. National Character, Maxcy, 18 

10. America — her Example, Phillips, 19 

11. Fate of the Indians, Story, 20 

12. Obligations to the Pilgrims, Wkelpley, 21 

13. Public Instruction, D. P. Page, .... 23 

14. Adams and Jefferson, D. Webster, 24 

15. The Existence of God, Maxcy, 25 

16. Extract from a Centennial Discourse, . . Story, 26 

17. Responsibleness of America, " 27 

18. What Mind is Free ? Channing, 29 

19. Science, W. M. Rogers, ... 31 

20. Fidelity to the Federal Union, C. W. Upham, ... 32 

21. The Fathers of Massachusetts, E.Everett, ...... 33 

22. Valedictory Address, Putnam, 34 

23. The People in the Cause of Freedom, . .E.Everett, 35 

24. Stability of Free Institutions, 31. P. Braman, ... 37 

25. Power of Individual Character, C. W. Upham, ... 38 

26. Industry Necessary to Success, H. Ware, Jr., .... 40 

27. The Spirit of War, 31. P. Braman, ... 41 

28. AVar and Peace, C. Simmer, 42 

29. Providential Agency, C. W. Upham, ... 43 

30. Temperance, D. Kimball, 45 

31. Popular Institutions, E.Everett, 46 

32. reflections at Mount Auburn, S. Kettel, 47 

33. Man a Social Being, W. D. Northend, . . 48 

34. The Death of J. Q. Adams, W. P. Lunt, . . . . 50 

35. J. Q. Adams, « .... 51 

36. Motives for Action, E. Everett, 53 

37. Introductory for an Evening Exhibition, . P. H. Sweetser, ... 54 

38. The Province of Faith, E. Beecher, 55 

39. Introductory for an Evening Exhibition, 56 

40. The Memory of the Good, H. Humphrey, ... 57 

41. The Mother Land, E. Everett, 58 

42. History, Jnred Sparks, .... 60 



VI CONTENTS. 

No. Authors. Page. 

43. Individual Energy and Action, C. W. JJpham, . . 61 

44. An Appeal in Behalf of Clinton, N. Cleaveland, . . 63 

45. Death of Adams and Jefferson, E. Everett, .... 64 

46. The Indians, H. Humphrey, . . 65 

47. An Introductory Address, 66 

48. The Effects of Diversified Employments, . 11. Choate, .... 68 

49. Our Duty as Citizens, E. Everett, .... 69 

50. Our Obligations, Knowles, 71 

51. The Education of the Heart, G. F. Chever, ... 72 

52. The Country of Washington, D. Webster, .... 74 

53. Individual Action, E. Everett, .... 75 

54. The Man of Expedients, S. Gilman, .... 76 

55. Woman, John Neal, .... 79 

56. Self-Conceit, Columbian Orator, . 81 

57. Keeping up Appearances, L. Withington, . . 84 

58. Foundation of National Character, . . . .E.Everett, .... 86 

59. The Ruling Passion, H. Mann, .... 87 

60. Why do not our Schools accomplish more? G.Crosby, .... 89 

61. The May-Flower, E. Everett, .... 90 

62. Motives to Moral Action, P.W. Chandler, . . 92 

PART II. — DIALOGUES. 

1. Pride, Parley's Magazine, 93 

2. Deportment, 95 

3. Order, Anon., 96 

4. Dancing, " 97 

5. About Going to School, 99 

6. Kindness Recommended, 101 

7. Self-interest, Berquin, 102 

8. Physiognomy, Anon., 106 

9. Hamlet and Horatio, Shakspeare, .... 109 

10. Hard to Please, Miss Edgeworth, . .111 

11. Charles II. and William Penn, Weems, 114 

12. Light Conversation with a Heavy Man, . Anon., 116 

13. The Doctor and his Patient, C. Ticknor, .... 118 

14. Gesler and Tell, Knowles, 120 

15. False Pride, Anon., 122 

16. Equality, Miss Edgeworth, . . 124 

17. Learning and Usefulness, Anon., 127 

18. The Two Robbers, Aikin, 128 

19. The Evil Adviser, Goodrich, 130 

20. The Beer Trial, Temp. Dialogues, . 134 

21. Yankeeism, E. L. Blanchard, . 135 

22. The Monster of Many Names, Temp. Dialogues, . 137 

23. Doing because Others do, J. G. Adams, . . .140 

24. The Indian Doctor, F. Poole, 144 

25. The News Dealer, Anon., 151 

26. Nobility, Miss Edgeworth, . . 153 

27. Fortune Telling, Anon., 156 

28. Children's Wishes, Mrs. Gilman, ... 159 

29. Choice of Countries, " ... 160 

30. Why Alexander was called Great, .... Anon., 162 

31. Home, * B. Cornwall, ... 164 



CONTENTS. VII 

No. Authors. Page. 

32. Choice of Hours, Mrs. Gilman, 165 

33. Woman — Account Current, Anon., 160 

34. The Seasons, " 167 

PART III. — POETRY. 

1. Psalm of Life, Longfellow, 169 

2. Ambition, False and True, Anon., 170 

3. On Visiting a Scene of Childhood, . . Blackwood's Magazine., . 170 

4. A Hint on Street Maimers, 0. W. Holmes, 171 

5. The American Eagle, John Neal, 172 

6. The Young Orator, E. Everett, 173 

7. Prologue, Anon., 174 

8. Cleon and I, Chas. Mackay, .... 175 

9. What I Hate to See, T.D.James, ■ 176 

10. Casabianca, Mrs. Hemans, 177 

11. New England, J. G. Whittier, .... 178 

12. To an Indian Gold Coin, Leyden, 179 

13. Indian Names, Mrs. Sigourney, .... 181 

14. The White Fawn, John Banvard, 182 

15. The Poor and the Rich, J. R. Lowell, 183 

16. The Landing; of the Pilgrims, . . . . Mrs. Hemans, 184 

17. Light for All, Chambers' Journal, ... 186 

18. To the American Flag, J. R. Brake, 187 

19. Napoleon at Rest, John Pierpont, 189 

20. The Three Black Crows, Birom, 190 

21. Contented John, Jane Taylor, 191 

22. An Acre of Corn, Anon., 192 

23. The Old Arm Chair, Miss E. Cook, 193 

24. The Poor Man's Hymn, C. B. Stuart, 194 

25. Labor, Miss C. F. Ome, .... 195 

26. The Crop of Acorns, Youth's Companion, . . 196 

27. Lines for an Exhibition, H. S. Osborne, .... 197 

28. Our Country, Pabodie, 198 

29. The New Englander among the Alps, . R. C. Waterston, . . .199 

30. The Dilatory Scholar, C. Gilman, 200 

31. A Name in the Sand, H.F.Gould, 201 

32. Report of an Adjudged Case, &c, . . Cowper, 201 

33. Philip of Mount Hope, J. O. Sargent, 202 

34. The Fields of War, 7. M'Lellan, Jr., .... 203 

35. The Pilgrims, P.H. Sweetscr, .... 205 

36. New England's Dead, I. M'Lellan, Jr., .... 205 

37. The Flight of Xerxes, Miss Jewsbury, .... 207 

38. A Centennial Hymn, Pierpont, 208 

39. Yankee Ships, J.T. Fields, 209 

40. Plea for the Red Man, C. Sprague, 210 

41. A Scene in a Private Mad -House, . . M. G. Lewis, 212 

42. "Excelsior," Longfellow, 213 

43. The Battle of Life, E.C.Jones, 215 

41. The Mariners, Park Benjamin, . . . .215 

45. Plea of the Indian, Anon., 216 

46. The Removal, « 217 

47. The Cold-water Man, " 218 

48. The Grave of the Indian Chief, . . . Bryant, 220 



VIII CONTENTS. 

No. Authors. Page. 

49. Universal Freedom, H. Ware, Jr., 220 

50. New England Mrs. E. T. Daniels, . . 221 

51. The Oaken Bucket, S. Woodworth, .... 223 

52. The Thriving Family — the States, . . Mrs. Sigourney, . . . .224 

53. The Poor Man, Anon., 225 

54. The Voice of Love, Isaac F. Shepard, . . . 226 

55. The Coming of the Pilgrims, .... Charles Sprague, . . . 227 

56. Old Ironsides, O.W. Holmes, .... 230 

57. The Destruction of the Turkish Capitan 

Pashaw's Flag-Ship, G. F. Chever, 231 

58. The Farmer's Song, Anon., 235 

59. Epilogue, " 235 

60. Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, Goldsmith, 236 

61. The Life-Boat, O. Oglethorpe, 237 

62. A Juvenile Recitation, N. Y. Weekly Messenger, 238 

63. The Inquiry, Anon., 241 

64. Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of 

Chamouni, Coleridge, 242 

65. The Stranger and his Friend, ..../. Montgomery, .... 244 

66. Hope, W.D. Northend, . . .245 

67. Freedom, L. Dame, 246 

68. The Orphan's Song, London Magazine, . . . 247 

69. Two Hundred Years Ago, G. Mellen, 248 

70. A Legend, J. G. Whittier, .... 250 



THE 

AMERICAN SPEAKER 



EXERCISE I. 
IMPORTANCE OF ORATORY. 



The principal means of communicating our ideas are 
two, — speech and writing. The former is the parent of 
the latter ; it is the more important, and its highest 
efforts are called — Oratory. 

If we consider the early period at which we begin to 
exercise the faculty of speech, and the frequency with 
which we exercise it, it must be a subject of surprise 
that so few excel in Oratory. In any enlightened com- 
munity, you will find numbers who are highly skilled 
in some particular art or science, to the study of which 
they did not apply themselves, till they had almost 
arrived at the stage of manhood. 

Yet, with regard to the powers of speech, — those 
powers which the very second year of our existence gen- 
erally calls into action, the exercise of which goes on at 
our sports, our studies, our walks, our very meals, and 
which is never long suspended, except at the hour of 
refreshing sleep, — with regard to those powers, how few 
surpass their fellow creatures of common information 
and modern attainments ! How very few deserve dis- 
tinction ! How rarely does one attain to eminence ! 

Oratory is highly useful to him that excels in it. In 
common conversation, observe the advantages which the 
fluent speaker enjoys over the man that hesitates, and 
stumbles in discourse. With half his information, he 
has twice his importance ; he commands the respect of 



10 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



his auditors ; he instructs and gratifies them. In the 
general transactions of business, the same superiority 
attends them. He communicates his views with clear- 
ness, precision and effect ; he carries his point by his 
mere readiness ; he concludes his treaty before another 
kind of man would have well set about it. Does he 
plead the cause of friendship? — How happy is his 
friend ! Of charity ? — How fortunate is the distressed ! 
Should he enter the legislature of his country, he ap- 
proves himself the people's bulwark ! 



EXERCISE II. 
FREE SCHOOLS, THE GLORY OF NEW ENGLAND. 

I know not, my friends, what more munificent dona- 
tion any government can bestow, than by providing 
instruction at the public expense, not as a scheme of 
charity, but of municipal policy. If a private person 
deserves the applause of all good men, who founds a 
single hospital or college, how much more are they 
entitled to the appellation of public benefactors, who, by 
the side of every church in every village, plant a school 
of letters. Other monuments of the art and genius of 
man may perish ; but these, from their very nature, seem, 
as far as human foresight can go, absolutely immortal. 

The triumphal arches of other days have fallen ; the 
sculptured columns have crumbled into dust ; the tem- 
ples of taste and religion have sunk into decay ; the pyr- 
amids themselves seem but mighty sepulchres hastening 
to the same oblivion to which the dead they cover long 
since passed. But here, every successive generation 
becomes a living memorial of our public schools, and a 
living example of their excellence. 

Never, never may this glorious institution be aban- 
doned or betrayed, by the weakness of its friends, or the 
power of its adversaries. It can scarcely be abandoned 
or betrayed, while New England remains free, and her 
representatives are true to their trust. It must forever 
count in its defence a majority of all those who ought 
to influence public affairs by their virtues or their tal- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 11 

ents ; for it must be that here they first felt the divinity 
of knowledge stir within them. 

What consolation can be higher, what reflection 
prouder, than the thought, that, in weal and in woe our 
children are under the public guardianship, and may 
here gather the fruits of that learning which ripens for 
eternity 1 



EXERCISE III. 
THE NATURE OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous 
occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong 
passions excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, further 
than it is connected with high intellectual and moral 
endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the 
qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, 
indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought 
from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they 
will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled 
in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must 
exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. 
Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of decla- 
mation, all may aspire after it; they cannot reach it. 
It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a 
fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic 
fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. 

The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
ments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and 
disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their 
wives, their children, and their country, hang on the 
decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their pow- 
er, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contempti- 
ble. Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and sub- 
dued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, 
patriotism is eloquent ; then, self-devotion is eloquent. 
The clear conception, out-running the deductions of 
logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless 
spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, 
informing every feature, and urging the whole man 



12 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

onward, right onward, to his object — this, this is elo- 
quence ; or, rather, it is something greater and higher 
than all eloquence, — it is action, noble, sublime, godlike 
action. 



EXERCISE IV. 
CONCLUSION OF A DISCOURSE AT PLYMOUTH. 

The hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this 
occasion will soon be passed. Neither we nor our chil- 
dren can expect to behold its return. They are in the 
distant regions of futurity, they exist only in the all- 
creating power of God, who shall stand here, a hundred 
years hence, to trace, through us, their descent from the 
Pilgrims, and to survey, as we have now surveyed, the 
progress of their country, during the lapse of a century. 
We would anticipate their concurrence with us in our 
sentiments of deep regard for our common ancestors. 
We would anticipate and partake the pleasure with 
which they will then recount the steps of New England's 
advancement. On the morning of that day, although it 
will not disturb us in our repose, the voice of acclama- 
tion and gratitude, commencing on the rock of Ply- 
mouth, shall be transmitted through millions of the sons 
of the Pilgrims, till it lose itself in the murmurs of the 
Pacific seas. 

We would leave, for the consideration of those who 
shall then occupy our places, some proof that we hold 
the blessings transmitted from our fathers in just estima- 
tion ; some proof of our attachment to the cause of good 
government, and of civil and religious liberty ; some 
proof of a sincere and ardent desire to promote every- 
thing which may enlarge the understandings and im- 
prove the hearts of men. And when, from the long dis- 
tance of an hundred years, they shall look back upon 
us, they shall know, at least, that we possessed affec- 
tions, which, running backward, and warming with 
gratitude, for what our ancestors have done for our hap- 
piness, run forward also to our posterity, and meet 
them with cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived 
on the shore of Being. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 13 

Advance, then, ye future generations ! We would 
hail you, as you rise in your long succession, to fill the 
places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of 
existence, where we are passing, and soon shall have 
passed, our own human duration. We bid you wel- 
come to this pleasant land of the Fathers. We bid you 
welcome to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of 
New England. We greet your accession to the great 
inheritance we have enjoyed. We welcome you to the 
blessings of good government, and religious liberty. 
We welcome you to the treasures of science, and the 
delights of learning. We welcome you to the transcend- 
ant sweets of domestic life, to the happiness of kindred, 
and parents, and children. We welcome you to the 
immeasurable blessings of rational existence, the im- 
mortal hope of Christianity, and the light of everlasting 
Truth. 



EXERCISE V. 
THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled 
with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the 
rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug 
his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race 
of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your 
heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer : 
gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian 
lover wooed his dusky mate. 

Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and 
helpless, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. 
Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, 
and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky 
shores. Here they warred ; the echoing whoop, the 
bloody grapple, the defying death-song, all were here ; 
and when the tiger strife was over, here curled the 
smoke of peace. 

Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark 
bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He 
had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but 
2 



14 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The 
poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but 
the God of the universe he acknowledged in everything 
around. 

He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind 
his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on 
him from his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped 
in the morning breeze ; in the lofty pine, that defied a 
thousand whirlwinds ; in the timid warbler, that never 
left its native grove ; in the fearless eagle, whose untired 
pinion was wet in clouds ; in the worm that crawled at 
his feet : and in his own matchless form, glowing with 
a spark of that light, to whose mysterious source he 
bent, in humble, though blind adoration. 

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean 
came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. 
The former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in 
the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have 
changed the character of a great continent, and blotted, 
forever, from its face, a whole peculiar people. Art has 
usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children 
of education have been too powerful for the tribes of 
the ignorant. 

Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how 
unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors ! 
The Indian, of falcon glance, and lion bearing, the 
theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic 
tale, is gone ! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the 
soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how mis- 
erable is man, when the foot of the conqueror is on his 
neck. 

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their 
cabins are in the dust. Their council- fire has long since 
gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to 
the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the 
distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting 
sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which 
is pressing them away ; they must soon hear the roar of 
the last wave, which will settle over them forever. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 15 



EXERCISE VI. 

ADDRESS OF BRUTUS, JUSTIFYING HIS ASSASSINATION OF 
CJ2SAR. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my 
cansc ; and be silent that you may hear. Believe me 
for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, 
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; 
and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. 
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of 
Caesar's, to him, I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was 
no less than his. If then that friend demand why 
Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer, — not that 
I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. 

Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, 
than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen? As 
Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, 
I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honor him ; but, as 
he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his 
love ; joy, for his fortune ; honor, for his valor ; and 
death, for his ambition. Who 's here so base, that would 
be a bondman ? If any. speak ; for him have I offended. 
Who 's here so rude, that would not be a Roman '? If 
any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who 's here so 
vile,, that will not love his country 1 If any, speak; for 
him have I offended. I pause for a reply. 

None ! Then none have I offended. I have done no 
more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The ques- 
tion of his death is enrolled in the capitol ; his glory not 
extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences 
enforced, for which he suffered death. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; 
who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive 
— the benefit of his dying — a place in the common- 
wealth ; as which of you shall not ? With this I de- 
part ; that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, 
I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please 
my country to need my death. 



16 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE VII. 
ONE CENTURY AFTER WASHINGTON. 

Gentlemen, we are at the point of a century from the 
birth of Washington ; and what a century it has been ! 
During its course, the human mind has seemed to pro- 
ceed with a sort of geometric velocity, accomplishing, for 
human intelligence, and human freedom, more than had 
been done in fives or tens of centuries preceding. Wash- 
ington stands at the commencement of a new era, as 
well as at the head of a new world. A century from 
the birth of Washington has changed the world. The 
country of Washington has been the theatre on Ayhich 
a great part of that change has been wrought; and 
Washington himself a principal agent by which it has 
been accomplished. His age and his country are equal- 
ly full of wonders ! and of both he is the chief. 

Washington had attained his manhood when that 
spark of liberty was struck out in his own country, 
which has since kindled into a flame, and shot its beams 
over the earth. In the flow of a century from his birth, 
the world has changed in science, in arts, in the extent 
of commerce, in the improvement of navigation, and in 
all that relates to the civilization of man. But it is the 
spirit of human freedom, the new elevation of individual 
man, in his moral, social, and political character, lead- 
ing the whole long train of other improvements, which 
has most remarkably distinguished the era. 

It has assumed a new character ; it has raised itself 
from beneath governments to a participation in govern- 
ments ; it has mixed moral and political objects with 
the daily pursuits of individual men ; and, with a free- 
dom and strength before altogether unknown, it has ap- 
plied to these objects the whole power of the human un- 
derstanding. It has been the era, in short, when the 
social principle has triumphed over the feudal principle ; 
when society has maintained its rights against military 
power, and established, on foundations never hereafter 
to be shaken, its competency to govern itself. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 17 

EXERCISE VIII. 
THE CONTRAST. 

Turn your eyes upon ancient Athens, the boast and 
pride of history; there you will behold, on all sides, vast 
monuments of taste, genius, and elegance. Look also 
at imperial Rome — I mean as she stood in all her great- 
ness and glory; — you see the majesty of the human in- 
tellect unfolded, you see her temples, her palaces, and 
her monuments of wealth and power. But do you see 
any hospitals for the sick? — any asylums for the deaf 
and the dumb, the blind and the aged, the fatherless 
and the widow, or any for the outcast of the land 1 The 
whole empire shows not one. 

How, then, will those renowned cities of the olden 
world and olden times compare with some of the mod- 
ern towns of the new world 1 Look at Boston, New 
York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore; look even at many 
of the little villages in this new country. In these you 
may see temples and monuments of art and taste ; but 
do you not, also, see hospitals, infirmaries, asylums, poor- 
houses, bettering-houses, refuge places, penitentiaries, 
quiet retreats, and snug harbors, open for the reception 
of every condition of suffering humanity 1 

What has caused this broad difference between those 
old cities and our young towns'? — between the people 
of the East, and the people of the West 1 — between an- 
cient times, and modern times 1 The Athenians were a 
splendid people, learned in laws, philosophy, and the 
sciences ; but they were a pagan people ; they wor- 
shipped a host of gods and goddesses, whose very names 
are too ridiculous to be recorded. 

The Romans, in their primitive state, had no higher 
objects of veneration than the Athenians ; and besides 
this, they were learned only in the arts of war, and the 
means of human destruction. And even when a pure 
religion struggled to the ascendency in the empire, it 
was soon corrupted to the most gross and licentious pur- 
poses. Even down to the present period, the senseless 
rites and images mingled with it dishonor the name of 
2* 



18 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

religion ; they mock the sanctity of its professors, and 
rest, like an incubus, upon the spirits of millions. 

The same religion in the new world, preserved in its 
pristine purity, and honored in its efficacy, has put a 
new face on all that belongs to life. It heals dissen- 
sions ; loves peace and good will to men ; beats the 
sword into pruning hooks ; spreads over the face of the 
world the works of benevolence ; rears monuments of 
charity ; delights in deeds of kindness, and constantly 
seeks the happiness of all. 



EXERCISE IX. 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 

The loss of a firm national character, or the degrada- 
tion of a nation's honor, is the inevitable prelude to her 
destruction. Behold the once proud fabric of a Roman 
empire, — an empire carrying its arts and arms into 
every part of the eastern continent ; the monarchs of 
mighty kingdoms dragged at the wheels of her triumph- 
al chariots ; her eagle waving over the ruins of desolated 
countries. Where is her splendor, her wealth, her pow- 
er, her glory? Extinguished forever. Her mouldering 
temples, the mournful vestiges of her former grandeur, 
afford a shelter to her muttering monks. Where are her 
statesmen, her sages, her philosophers, her orators, her 
generals 1 Go to their solitary tombs and inquire. She 
lost her national character, and her destruction followed. 
The ramparts of her national pride were broken down, 
and Vandalism desolated her classic fields. 

Such, the warning voice of antiquity, the example 
of all republics, proclaim may be our fate. But let us 
no longer indulge these gloomy anticipations. The 
commencement of our liberty presages the dawn of a 
brighter period to the world. That bold, enterprising 
spirit which conducted our heroes to peace and safety, 
and gave us a lofty rank amid the empires of the world, 
still animates the bosoms of their descendants. Look 
back to that moment when they unbarred the dungeons 
of the slave and dashed his fetters to the earth ; when 
the sword of a Washington leaped from its scabbard to 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 19 

revenge the slaughter of our countrymen. Place their 
example before you. Let the sparks of their veteran 
wisdom flash across your minds, and the sacred altars 
of your liberty, crowned with immortal honors, rise be- 
fore you. Relying on the virtue, the courage, the patri- 
otism, and the strength of our country, we may expect 
our national character will become more energetic, our 
citizens more enlightened, and we may hail the age as 
not far distant, when will be heard, as the proudest ex- 
clamation of man, — I am an American ! 



EXERCISE X. 
AMERICA HER EXAMPLE. 

Americans ! you have a country vast in extent, and 
embracing all the varieties of the most salubrious climes ; 
held not by charters wrested from unwilling kings, but 
the bountiful gift of the Author of nature. The exuber- 
ance of your population is daily divesting the gloomy 
wilderness of its rude attire, and splendid cities rise to 
cheer the dreary desert. You have a government de- 
servedly celebrated "as giving the sanctions of law to 
the precepts of reason ;" presenting, instead of the rank 
luxuriance of natural licentiousness, the corrected sweets 
of civil liberty. You have fought the battles of freedom, 
and enkindled that sacred flame which now glows with 
vivid fervor through the greatest empire in Europe. 

We indulge the sanguine hope, that her equal laws 
and virtuous conduct will hereafter afford examples of 
imitation to all surrounding nations. That the blissful 
period will soon arrive when man shall be elevated to 
his primitive character ; when illuminated reason and 
regulated liberty shall once more exhibit him in the im- 
age of his Maker ; when all the inhabitants of the globe 
shall be freemen and fellow-citizens, and patriotism it- 
self be lost in universal philanthropy. Then shall vol- 
umes of incense incessantly roll from altars inscribed to 
liberty. Then shall the innumerable varieties of the 
human race unitedly "worship in her sacred temple, 
whose pillars shall rest on the remotest corners of the 
earth, and whose arch will be the vault of heaven." 



20 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



EXERCISE XI, 
FATE OF THE INDIANS. 

There is, indeed, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, 
much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the 
sobriety of our judgment ; much which may be urged to 
excuse their own atrocities ; much in their characters 
which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What 
can be more melancholy than their history 1 By a law 
of their nature, they seem destined to a slow, but sure 
extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of the white 
man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their 
footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, 
and they are gone forever. They pass mournfully by 
us, and they return no more. 

Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and 
the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from 
Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to 
the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory 
and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the 
glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk 
whistled through the forests ; and the hunter's trace and 
the dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their 
lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The 
young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers 
played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with 
warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down ; but 
they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer 
regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home pre- 
pared for the brave, beyond the western skies. 

Braver men never lived ; truer men never drew the 
bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, 
and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. 
They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hard- 
ships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had 
the virtues also. They were true to their country, their 
friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, 
neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance 
was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon- 
querable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not 
on this side of the grave. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. '21 

But where are they 1 Where are the villages, and 
warriors, and youth ; the sachems and the tribes ; the 
hunters and their families ? They have perished. They 
are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone 
done the mighty work. No; nor famine, nor war. 
There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which 
hath eaten into their heart-cores ; a plague, which the 
touch of the white man communicated ; a poison which 
betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the 
Atlantic fan not a single region which they may now 
call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the 
race are preparing for their journey beyond the Missis- 
sippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, 
the helpless, the women, and the warriors, "few and 
faint, yet fearless still." 

The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The 
smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They 
move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man 
is upon their heels, for terror or despatch ; but they heed 
him not. They turn to take a last look of their desert- 
ed villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of 
their fathers. They shed no tears ; they utter no cries ; 
they heave no groans. 'There is something in their 
hearts which passes speech. There is something in 
their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard 
necessity, which stifles both ; which . chokes all utter- 
ance; which has no aim or method. It is courage ab- 
sorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their 
look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It 
shall never be repassed by them — no, never! Yet there 
lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They 
know and feel, that there is for them still one remove 
farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general 
burial-ground of the race. 



EXERCISE XII. 
OBLIGATIONS TO THE PILGRIMS. 

Let us go back to the rock where the Pilgrims first 
stood, and look abroad upon this wide and happy land, 



22 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

so full of their lineal or adopted sons, and repeat the 
question, — to whom do we owe it, that " the wilderness 
has thus been turned into a fruitful field, and the desert 
has become as the garden of the Lord ? " To whom do 
we owe it, under an all-wise Providence, that this na- 
tion, so miraculously born, is now contributing with 
such effect to the welfare of the human family, by aid- 
ing the march of mental and moral improvement, and 
giving an example to the nations of what it is to be pious, 
intelligent, and free? To whom do we owe it, that 
with us the great ends of the social compact are ac- 
complished to a degree of perfection never before real- 
ized ; that the union of public power and private liberty 
is here exhibited in a harmony so singular and perfect 
as to allow the might of political combination to rest 
upon the basis of individual virtue, and to call into ex- 
ercise, by the very freedom which such a union gives, 
all the powers that contribute to national prosperity ? 

To whom do we owe it, that the pure and powerful 
light of the gospel is now shed abroad over these coun- 
tries, and is rapidly gaining upon the darkness of the 
western world; — that the importance of religion to the 
temporal welfare of men, and to the permanence of 
wise institutions, is here beginning to be felt in its just 
measure ; — that the influence of a divine revelation is 
not here, as in almost every other section of Christendom, 
wrested to purposes of worldly ambition; — that the holy- 
Bible is not sealed from the eyes of those for whom it 
was intended, and the best charities and noblest pow- 
ers of the soul degraded by the terrors of a dark and 
artful superstition ? 

To whom do we owe it, that in this favored land' the 
gospel of the grace of God has best displayed its power 
to bless humanity, by uniting the anticipations of a bet- 
ter world with the highest interests and pursuits of this ; 
— by carrying its merciful influence into the very busi- 
ness and bosoms of men ; — by making the ignorant wise 
and the miserable happy ; — by breaking the fetters of 
the slave, and teaching the "babe and suckling" those 
simple and sublime truths which give to life its dignity 
and virtue, and fill immortality with hope? To whom 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 23 

do we owe all this? Doubtless, to the Plymouth Pil- 
grims ! Happily did one of these fearless exiles ex- 
claim, in view of all that was past, and of the blessing, 
and honor, and glory, that was yet to come, "God hath 
sifted three kingdoms, that he might gather the choice 
grain, and plant it in the wilderness." 



EXERCISE XIII. 
PUBLIC INSTRUCTION. 



Among all the various blessings bequeathed to us by 
the ancestors of New England — if we except religious 
freedom — none has stronger claims for our attachment, 
or demands more imperiously our warmest gratitude, 
than their early institution of the Common School Sys- 
tem. As if endowed with wisdom beyond the age in 
which they lived, and with a liberality far above the 
people from whom they came out, they were the first to 
declare — if not the first to entertain — the important 
doctrine, that religious and civil liberty, in the broadest 
sense, could have a permanent foundation only in a 
general diffusion of intelligence in the whole communi- 
ty. They were the very first men to declare positively 
against an exclusive aristocracy in mental cultivation ; 
the first to open freely and fully to all classes and to 
both sexes the fountains of knowledge ; the first to es- 
tablish and maintain, at the public expense, wherever 
they felled the forest and founded a settlement — second 
in their affections only to the ordinances of religion — the 
means of public instruction. 

And, perhaps, it is no censurable pride in us that we 
fondly — and, it may be, somewhat boastfully — repeat 
the fact, that the spot which is now the site of the city 
of Salem, in the county of Essex and commonwealth of 
Massachusetts, was the locality of the very first public 
free school the world ever saw ! 

To us, then, who are met within the limits of a state 
so honorably distinguished in the annals of human im- 
provement; to us, who are the descendants of a New 
England ancestry, and have been nurtured amid New 



24 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

England institutions ; standing as we now do between 
the illustrious dead, on the one hand, and the rising 
progeny of such a noble parentage, on the other ; charged 
as we are with the responsible office of ministering with 
pure hands and devoted hearts to the intellectual growth 
of a rising multitude, and of perpetuating to others yet 
to come the blessings we have richly received, — it can- 
not be uninteresting to pause a few moments, by the 
way, and inquire what improvements have been intro- 
duced, and what advancement we have made, in an 
enterprise so worthy of its founders, and so necessary to 
our very existence as a free and self-governing people. 



EXERCISE XIV. 
ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 

Adams and Jefferson are no more ! On our fiftieth 
anniversary, the great day of national jubilee, in the 
very hour of public rejoicing, in the midst of echoing 
and reechoing voices of thanksgiving, while their own 
names were on all tongues, they took their flight, togeth- 
er, to the world of spirits. 

Adams and Jefferson are no more ! As human beings, 
indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 
1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence ; no 
more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the govern- 
ment; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged 
and venerable objects of admiration and regard. 

They are no more ! They are dead ! But how little 
is there of the great and good which can die ! To their 
country they yet live, and live forever. They live in 
all that perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth ; 
in the recorded proofs of their own great actions — in 
the offspring of their intellect — in the deep engraved 
lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage 
of mankind. They live in their example ; and they 
live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which 
their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now 
exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of 
men, not only in their own country, but throughout the 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 25 

civilized world. A superior and commanding human 
intellect, a truly great man, when Heaven vouchsafes 
so rare a gift, is not a temporary flame, burning bright 
for a while, and then expiring, giving place to returning 
darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well 
as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common 
mass of human mind ; so that when it glimmers, in its 
own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night fol- 
lows, but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from 
the potent contact of its own spirit. 

No two men now live, perhaps it may be doubted 
whether two men have ever lived, in one age, who, 
more than those we now commemorate, have impressed 
their own sentiments, in regard to politics and govern- 
ment, on mankind; infused their own opinions more 
deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more last- 
ing direction to the current of human thoughts. Their 
work doth not perish with them. The tree which they 
assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and. 
protect it no longer ; for it has struck its root deep ; it 
has sent them to the very centre ; no storm, not of force 
to burst the orb, can overturn it ; its branches spread 
wide ; they stretch their protecting arms broader and 
broader; and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 



EXERCISE XV. 
THE EXISTENCE OF GOD. 

A firm belief in the existence of God will heighten 
all the enjoyments of life, and, by conforming our hearts 
to His will, will secure the approbation of a good con- 
science, and inspire us with the hopes of a blessed im- 
mortality. Never be tempted to disbelieve the existence 
of God, when everything around you proclaims it in a 
language too plain not to be understood. Never cast 
your eyes on creation, without having your souls ex- 
panded with this sentiment, — "There is a God." 

When you survey this globe of earth, with all its ap- 
pendages ; when you behold it inhabited by number- 
less ranks of creatures, all moving in their proper spheres-, 



26 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

all verging to their proper ends, all animated by the 
same great source of life, all supported at the same great 
bounteous table ; when you behold, not only the earth, 
but the ocean, and the air, swarming with living crea- 
tures, all happy in their situation ; when you behold 
yonder sun darting an effulgent blaze of glory over the 
heavens, garnishing mighty worlds, and waking ten 
thousand songs of praise ; when you behold unnumbered 
systems diffused through vast immensity, clothed in 
splendor, and rolling in majesty ; when you behold these 
things, your affections will rise above all the vanities of 
time; your full souls will struggle with ecstasy, and 
your reason, passions, and feelings, all united, will rush 
up to the skies, with a devout acknowledgment of the 
existence, power, wisdom, and goodness of God. Let 
us behold Him, let us wonder, let us praise and adore. 
These things will make us happy. 



EXERCISE XVI. 
EXTRACT FROM A CENTENNIAL DISCOURSE AT SALEM, MASS. 

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last, 
experiment of self-government by the people. We have 
begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious 
nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has 
never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our 
constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or 
luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have 
been from the beginning ; simple, hardy, intelligent, 
accustomed to self-government and. self-respect. The 
Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. 

Within our own territory, stretching through many 
degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of 
many products, and many means of independence. 
The governmnnt is mild. The press is free. Religion 
is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. 
What fairer prospect of success could be presented '? 
What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime 
end ? What more is necessary, than for the people to 
preserve what they themselves have created ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 27 

Already has the age caught the spirit of our institu- 
tions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed 
the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the 
life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of 
France, and the low lands of Holland. It has touched 
the philosophy of Germany and the North, and, moving 
onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of 
her better days. 

Can it be that America, under such circumstances, 
can betray herself ! that she is to be added to the cata- 
logue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is, 
"They were, but they are not!" Forbid it, my coun- 
trymen ; forbid it, Heaven ! 

I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ances- 
tors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious 
soil, by all you are, and all you hope to be ; resist every 
project of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your 
liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, 
or smother your public schools, or extinguish your 
system of public instruction. ****** We, 
who are now assembled here must soon be gathered to 
the congregation of other days. The time of our depart- 
ure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the 
theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs ! May 
he, who at the distance of another century shall stand 
here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, 
happy, and virtuous people ! May he have reason to 
exult as we do ! May he, with all the enthusiasm of 
truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his 
country, 

" Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; 
Patient of" toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms ! " 



EXERCISE XVII. 

RESPONSIBLENESS OF AMERICA. 



When we reflect on what has been, and is, how is it 
possible not to feel a profound sense of the responsible- 



28 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

ness of this republic to all future ages ! What vast 
motives press upon us for lofty efforts ! What brilliant 
prospects invite our enthusiasm ! What solemn warn- 
ings at once demand our vigilance, and moderate our 
confidence ! 

The old world has already revealed to us, in its 
unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own 
marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, 
lovely Greece, "the land of scholars and the nurse of 
arms," where sister republics in fair processions chanted 
the praises of liberty and the gods, — where and what 
is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has 
bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The 
last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a 
ruthless soldiery; the fragments of her columns and her 
palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin. She fell 
not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were 
united at Thermopylas and Marathon ; and the tide of 
her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was 
conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands 
of her own people. The man of Macedonia did hot the 
work of destruction. It was already done, by her own 
corruptions, banishments and dissensions. 

Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the 
rising and setting sun, — where and what is she? The 
eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, 
noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, 
and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria 
has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. 
More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss 
of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals 
before Csesar had crossed the Rubicon. The Goths, 
and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, com- 
pleted only what was already begun at home. Romans 
betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold, but 
the people offered the tribute money. 

And where are the republics of modern times, which 
clustered round immortal Italy? Venice and Genoa exist 
but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the 
brave and peaceful Swiss in their native fastnesses ; but 
the guaranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 29 

not ill their strength. The mountains are not easily- 
crossed, and the valleys are not easily retained. When 
the invader comes, he moves like an avalanche, carry- 
ing destruction in his path. The peasantry sinks before 
him. The country is too poor for plunder, and too 
rough for valuable conquest. Nature presents her eter- 
nal barriers on every side to check the wantonness of 
ambition; and Switzerland remains with her simple 
institutions, a military road to fairer climates, scarcely 
worth a permanent possession, and protected by the 
jealousy of her neighbors. 



EXERCISE XVIII. 
WHAT MIND IS FREE? 

I call that mind free, which masters the senses, which 
protects itself against animal appetites, which contemns 
pleasure and pain in comparison with its own energy, 
which penetrates beneath the body and recognizes its 
own reality and greatness, which passes life, not in ask- 
ing what it shall eat or drink, but in hungering, thirst- 
ing and seeking, after righteousness. 

I call that mind free, which escapes the bondage of 
matter, which, instead of stopping at the material uni- 
verse and making it a prison wall, passes beyond it to 
its Author, and finds, in the radiant signatures which it 
everywhere bears of the Infinite Spirit, helps to its own 
spiritual enlargement. 

I call that mind free, which jealously guards its in- 
tellectual rights and powers, which calls no man master, 
which does not content itself with a passive or hereditary 
faith, which opens itself to light whencesoever it may 
come, which receives new truth as an angel from 
heaven, which, while consulting others, inquires still 
more of the oracle within itself, and uses instruction 
from abroad, not to supersede, but quicken and exalt, its 
own energies. 

I call that mind free, which sets no bounds to its love, 
which is not imprisoned in itself or in a sect, which 
recognizes in all human beings the image of God and the 
3* 



30 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

rights of His children, which delights in virtue and sym- 
pathizes with suffering, wherever they are seen, which 
conquers pride, anger and sloth, and offers itself up a 
willing victim to the cause of mankind. 

I call that mind free, which is not passively framed 
by outward circumstances, which is not swept away by 
the torrent, of events, which is not the creature of acci- 
dental impulse, but which bends events to its own im- 
provement, and acts from an inward spring, from im- 
mutable principles which it has deliberately espoused. 

I call that mind free, which protects itself against the 
usurpations of society, which does not cower to human 
opinion, which feels itself accountable to a higher 
tribunal than man's, which respects a higher law than 
fashion, which respects itself too much to be the slave or 
tool of the many or the few. 

I call that mind free, which, through confidence in 
God, and in the power of virtue, has cast off all fear 
but that of wrong doing, which no menace or peril can 
enthral, which is calm in the midst of tumults, and pos- 
sesses itself, though all else be lost. 

I call that mind free, which resists the bondage of 
habit, which does not mechanically repeat itself and 
copy the past, which does not live on its old virtues, 
which does not enslave itself to precise rules, but which 
forgets what is behind, listens for new and higher moni- 
tions of conscience, and rejoices to pour itself forth in 
fresh and higher exertions. 

I call that mind free, which is jealous of its own free- 
dom, which guards itself from being merged in others, 
which guards its empire over itself as nobler than the 
empire of the world. 

In fine, I call that mind free, which, conscious of its 
affinity with God, and confiding in His promises by 
Jesus Christ, devotes itself faithfully to,the unfolding of 
all its powers, which passes the bounds of time and 
death, which hopes to advance forever, and which finds 
inexhaustible power, both for action and suffering, in 
the prospect of immortality. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 31 

EXERCISE XIX. 



Science does not stint man to the blessings of his own 
skies : she levels the forest, and fashions it to her mind, 
until the oak floats a gallant ship upon the waters, as on 
its element; she clothes it with wings, and sends it 
across the ocean, compelling the very stars to tell the 
mariner his way whithersoever he would go, that she 
may pour into the lap of man the blessings of other 
climes, of which nature has been chary to his own. 
Thus she binds the families of the earth together in the 
interests of commerce, enriching each with the good of 
all. These are the triumphs of science. 

And thus she has brought us, step by step, invention 
after invention, to the present state of civilized man. 
Nor does she close her labors here. She comes to man 
as a bride, with the treasures of the earth, the sea and 
the sky, for her dower ; but it is not in her dower, rich 
and divine though it be, that her chief excellence con- 
sists. She is to be loved and prized for herself, as well 
as for the blessings she brings with her ; and they 
usually woo her most successfully who seek her with 
no mercenary aims. 

He who cultivates an acquaintance with the world in 
which he lives can never be alone. What is solitude, 
but the emptiness of an ignorant mind 1 He who can 
converse with nature, and ponder on the varied mys- 
teries she brings to his notice, and by which she fills his 
heart with gratitude and delight, can never be alone. 
1 Ie needs no companionship. Let him wander forth by 
hill, and brook, and grove, — no rhyming, love-sick, 
dreaming enthusiast, but a shrewd observer of facts, a 
searcher after principles and laws, — and nature has 
enough to occupy, to interest, and improve, in her most 
common forms, without sending him to libraries for 
knowledge. 

Where the vulgar eye can see only a shapeless mass of 
rock, revealing nothing to the careless and ignorant, he 
will detect a chronicle of the past, and tracing it to its 
native quarry, gather something from it of the stupen- 
dous changes which have transpired in our globe. While 



32 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

others pass by the insect, unheeded in its toil, he will 
stoop to watch its labors, discover its habits, and admire 
the Divine wisdom which has fitted it to its sphere. 
The very clod, which is trod unnoticed by the common 
foot, in the organization of the humble herb upon it, the 
root, the stem, the circulation of its juices, and the pro- 
vision for continuing its kind, is as a page in God's 
book, where He has stereotyped His power, His wisdom 
and His goodness. He cannot be a solitary being. The 
universe is open before him, and he sees everywhere the 
majesty and loveliness of a higher nature. Where 
others can perceive nothing, learn nothing, order, beauty 
and law, are revealed to him. Where others can see 
but a stone, he sees a God, and worships. He cannot 
be alone; for, step by step, he learns to understand what 
a God only could create. 



EXERCISE XX. 
FIDELITY TO THE FEDERAL UNION. 

1 would earnestly exhort every son of New England 
to be faithful forever to the Federal Union. While they 
exercise, according to their several convictions, their 
political rights, in opposing all partial and sectional leg- 
islation, resisting the extension, by the national author- 
ity, of anti-republican institutions, and discountenancing 
unrighteousness and injustice in the mode in which the 
government is administered, let them rejoice in the as- 
surance that, over whatever extent of territory, and from 
whatever motives of policy, the confederacy is spread, 
within its boundaries the arts of peace, which are their 
arts, and were the arts of their fathers, will have an op- 
portunity, such as has never been secured before, to 
prevail over all the other arts. 

If, impelled by the enterprise which marks their race, 
they follqw with their traffic and ingenious industry the 
conquests of our armies, or open the way for cultivation 
and civilization to advance into the remotest regions of 
the West, or pursue their avocations in any quarter of 
the Union, however inconsistent with their views its 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 33 

peculiar institutions may be, if they carry their house- 
hold gods with them, all others will gradually be con- 
verted to their principles, and imbued with their spirit. 
If the sons of New England rear the schoolhouse and 
the church wherever they select their homes, if they 
preserve the reliance upon their own individual energies, 
the love of knowledge, the trust in Providence, the spirit 
of patriotic faith and hope, which made its most barren 
regions blossom and become fruitful around their fathers, 
then will the glorious vision of those fathers be realized, 
and the continent rejoice, in all its latitudes and from 
sea to sea, in the blessings of freedom and education, of 
peace and prosperity, of virtue and religion. 



EXERCISE XXI. 
THE FATHERS OF MASSACHUSETTS. 

The venerable foundations of our republic, fellow- 
citizens, were laid, on the very spot where we stand, by 
the fathers of Massachusetts. Here, before they were 
able to erect a suitable place for worship, they were 
wont, beneath the branches of a spreading tree, to com- 
mend their wants, their sufferings, and their hopes, to 
Him that dwelleth not in houses made with hands; 
here they erected their first habitations ; here they gath- 
ered their first church ; here they made their first graves. 

Yes, on the very spot where we are assembled, crowned 
with this spacious edifice, surrounded by the comfort- 
able abodes of a dense population, there were, during 
the first season after the landing of Winthrop, fewer 
dwellings for the living than graves for the dead. It 
seemed the will of Providence, that our fathers should 
be tried by the extremities of either season. When the 
Pilgrims approached the coast of Plymouth, they found 
it clad with all the terrors of a northern winter : 

The sea around was black with storms, 
And white the shore with snow. 

The Massachusetts company arrived at the close of 
June. No vineyards, as now, clothed our inhospitable 



34 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

hill-sides ; no blooming orchards, as at the present day, 
wore the livery of Eden, and loaded the breeze with 
sweet odors ; no rich pastures nor waving crops stretched 
beneath the eye, along the way-side, from village to vil- 
lage, as if Nature had been spreading her halls with a 
carpet fit to be pressed by the footsteps of her descend- 
ing God ! The beauty and the bloom of the year had 
passed. The earth, not yet subdued by culture, bore 
upon its untilled bosom nothing but a dismal forest, that 
mocked their hunger with rank and unprofitable vegeta- 
tion. The sun was hot in the heavens. The soil was 
parched; and the hand of man had not yet taught its 
secret springs to flow from their fountains. The wast- 
ing disease of the heart-sick mariner was upon the men; 
and the women and children thought of the pleasant 
homes of England, as they sunk down from day to day, 
and died, at last, for want of a cup of cold water, in this 
melancholy land of promise. 



EXERCISE XXII. 
VALEDICTORY ADDRESS. 

We thank you, friends, who have come hither on this 
occasion, to encourage and cheer us with your presence. 
We thank you, who have gone so far and learned so 
much, on your journey of life, that you so kindly look 
back and smile upon us just setting out on our pilgrim- 
age. We thank you who have climbed so high up the 
Hill of Science, that you condescend to pause a moment 
in your course, and bestow a cheering, animating glance 
on us, who, almost invisible in the distance, are toiling 
over the roughness of the first ascent. May you go on 
your way in peace, your path, like the sun, waxing 
brighter and brighter till the perfect day ; and may the 
light of your example long linger in blessings on those of 
us who shall survive to take your places in the broad 
and busy world ! 

We thank you, respected instructors, for your paternal 
care, your faithful counsels, and affectionate instructions. 
You have opened before us those ways of wisdom which 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 35 

are full of -pleasantness and peace. You have warned 
us of danger, when dangers beset our path; you have 
removed obstacles, when obstacles impeded our progress; 
you have corrected us when in error, and cheered us 
when discouraged. You have told us of the bright 
rewards of knowledge and virtue, and of the fearful 
recompense of ignorance and vice. In the name of my 
companions, I thank you — warmly, sincerely thank you 
for it all. Our lips cannot express the gratitude that 
glows within our hearts ; but we will endeavor, with the 
blessing of heaven, to testify it in our future lives, by 
dedicating all that we are, and all that we may attain, 
to the promotion of virtue and the good of mankind. 

And now, beloved companions, I turn to you. Long 
and happy has been our connection as members of this 
school ; but with* this day it must close forever. No 
longer shall we sit in these seats to listen to the voice 
that woos us to be wise ; no more shall we sport together 
on the noisy green, or wander in the silent grove. Other 
scenes, other society, other pursuits, await us. We must 
part; — but parting shall only draw closer the ties that 
bind us. The setting sun and the evening star, which 
have so often witnessed our social intimacies and joys, 
shall still remind us of the scenes that are past. While 
we live on the earth, may we cherish a grateful remem- 
brance of each other ; and, oh ! in Heaven, may our 
friendship be purified and perpetuated ! And now, to 
old and young, to patrons and friends, to instructors and 
associates, we tender our reluctant and affectionate fare- 
Avell. 



EXERCISE XXIII. 
THE PEOPLE IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM. 

In the prodigious efforts of a veteran army, beneath 
the dazzling splendor of their array, there is something 
revolting to the reflective mind. The ranks are filled 
with the desperate, the mercenary, the depraved; an 
iron slavery, by the name of subordination, merges the 
free will of one hundred thousand men in the unquali- 



36 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

fied despotism of one ; the humanity, mercy, and re- 
morse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, 
are sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, 
irrational monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is 
hard to say who are most to be commiserated, the 
wretched people on whom it is let loose, or the still more 
wretched people, whose substance has been sucked out 
to nourish it into strength and fury. 

But, in the efforts of the people, of the people strug- 
gling for their rights, moving not in organized, disci- 
plined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for 
man, and heart for heart, — though I like not war, nor 
any of its works, — there is something glorious. They 
can then move forward without orders, act together 
without combination, and brave the flaming lines of 
battle, without entrenchments to cover, or walls to shield 
them. 

No dissolute camp has worn off from the feelings of 
the youthful soldier the freshness of that home, where 
his mother and his sisters sit waiting, with tearful eyes 
and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars ; 
no long service in the ranks of a conqueror has turned 
the veteran's heart into marble ; their valor springs not 
from recklessness, from habit, from indifference to the 
preservation of a life knit by no pledges to the life of 
others ; but in the strength and spirit of the cause alone, 
they act, they contend, they bleed. In this, they con- 
quer. 

The people always conquer.* They always must 
conquer. Armies may be defeated ; kings may be over- 
thrown, and new dynasties imposed by foreign arms on 
an ignorant and slavish race, that care not in what lan- 
guage the covenant of their subjection runs, nor in whose 
name the deed of their barter and sale is made out. 
But the people never invade; and when they rise against 
the invader, are never subdued. 

If 4hey are driven from the plains, they fly to the 
mountains. Steep rocks, and everlasting hills, are their 
castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket, their palisado ; and 
nature, — God, is their ally. Now he overwhelms the 
hosts of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 37 

sand ; now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere 
of polar snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; 
he puts a folly into their counsels, a madness into the 
hearts of their leaders ; and never gave, and never will 
give, a full and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant 
people, resolved to be free. 



EXERCISE XXIV. 
STABILITY OF FREE INSTITUTIONS. 

It is a well settled opinion, that the stability and per- 
manency of our free institutions rest on the intelligence, 
virtue, and strength of religious sentiment in the country. 
Some portions of our Union, particularly New England, 
possess those elements and guarantees of republican 
liberty in an extensive and encouraging degree. They 
are great models for the new and forming states, whose 
success and prosperity depend on the approach which 
they make to their illustrious examples. But the recently 
formed and forming states, to say nothing of some others 
of older date, are in a condition to awaken the patriotic 
concern of every man who wishes well to the republic, 
and hopes for the success of the great experiment of 
North American liberty. 

It is a point clearly understood and admitted by every 
intelligent man, decided with him beyond all question, 
that unless that portion of the country which compre- 
hends more than half the area, which is the most fertile 
in resources, and destined to become the most populous, 
wealthy, and powerful section of the whole, is not vastly 
better supplied with the sources of moral and intellect- 
ual culture than the present means furnish, a disastrous 
fate awaits it. Free institutions cannot be maintained 
in it ; and as the physical power will reside in that 
district, and as the rest of us are united with them under 
a common government, how hardly shall we escape a 
common ruin ! When that fall takes place, it will shake 
New England and the Atlantic States as if an earth- 
quake had unsettled the foundation of all their hills and 
4 



38 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

mountains, if it does not overwhelm them in the same 
catastrophe. 

We do indeed hope for a better fate for all. We hope 
that the deep impression of alarm which the danger has 
created, the mighty interest that has been awakened, 
that the vast ocean tide of patriotic and Christian feeling 
which is rolling in upon those arid lands, that the great 
mustering of the forces of American liberty on those, 
western battle-fields, where the last contest is to be 
fought, and the last victory won or lost, will leave the 
banners of intelligent Christians, happy republicanism, 
floating and triumphant along the whole length of the 
Mississippi. 



EXERCISE XXV. 
POWER OF INDIVIDUAL CHARACTER. 

The power of character, growing out of the free 
development of the turn of mind of every individual, 
and the feeling connected with it, that each one may 
and must choose his own course, open his own path, 
and determine his own condition, has made New Eng- 
land impregnable, and covered her comparatively stub- 
born and sterile soil with abundance. This is the secret 
magic by which her sons command success and wealth 
wherever they wander. The states included under 
that name have contracted limits, and are subject to 
many disadvantages ; on the expanding map, or in the 
multiplying census of the Union, they may appear feeble 
and insignificant. But their prosperity is sure, and will 
be perpetual. No power of party, no sectional preju- 
dice, no error of policy, no injustice of government, can 
permanently or essentially check the career of progress 
in wealth and civilization, along which the energies of 
individual ingenuity, enterprise, intelligence, and indus- 
try, have from the beginning impelled them. 

When this force of individual character, this conscious- 
ness of inherent power, is once brought into exercise, 
and becomes habitual, entering into the frame of the 

Ob- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 39 

stacle, peril, and suffering, serve only to reveal in the 
heart sources of energy, hidden and undreamed of before. 
The great master of the drama, and of human nature, 
expounds the principle. 

" The fire i' the flint 

Shows not, till it be struck." 

One of the most accomplished of the Latin classics 
declares the effect which trial and difficulty exert in 
bringing out tins mighty force of character, " Adversa 
magnos probant." All history and observation demon- 
strate it. 

The mind, thrown upon its own resources, and sum- 
moning them resolutely to the effort, rises with every 
emergency, and confronts and surmounts all that can 
be brought against it. Such was the discipline of the 
early New England character. Cold, hunger, disease, 
desolation, grappled with it in vain, at the beginning. 
Neither the tomahawk nor war-whoop of the Indian, nor 
all the terrors which hung over their defenceless ham- 
lets, could subdue hearts armed with this inward strength. 
It grew with constant and healthful vigor through all 
vicissitudes. The neglect of the mother country could 
not cast a shade dark or damp enough to wither it ; the 
most violent storms of its anger could not break it. 
Charters were torn away by the ruthless hand of arbi- 
trary power, and every resource of despotism was ex- 
hausted to curb and crush it. But all was in vain. 

The people, severally and universally, had realized 
their rights and their power, as men; and a determina- 
tion to advance their own condition, to retain and enlarge 
their privileges, thus pervading the entire population, 
made them superior to all local disadvantages, and 
triumphant over all opposition. It placed their prosperity 
beyond the reach of power or fortune. So long as the 
arm of the settler could wield an axe, or his hand cast 
a vote ; so long as the district schoolhouse opened its 
doors to impart the knowledge and the mental culture 
enabling him to understand and maintain his rights, or 
the village church lifted its spire into the heavens to 
remind him of that immortal element, which, glow- 
ing in his breast, placed him on a level with the highest 



40 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

of his fellow-men, it would be impossible to enslave him, 
or prevent his progress. 



EXERCISE XXVI. 
INDUSTRY NECESSARY TO SUCCESS. 

Success in every art, whatever may be the natural 
talent, is always the reward of industry and pains. But 
the instances are many, of men of the finest natural 
genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who 
have degenerated wretchedly as they advanced, because 
they trusted to their gifts, and made no effort to improve. 
That there have never been other men of equal endow- 
ments with Cicero and Demosthenes, none would ven- 
ture to suppose ; but who have so devoted themselves 
to their art, or become equal in excellence? If those 
great men had been content, like others, to continue 
as they began, and had never made their persever- 
ing efforts for improvement, what could their coun- 
tries have benefited from their genius, or the world 
have known of their fame? They would have been 
lost in the undistinguished crowd, that sank to oblivion 
around them. 

Of how many more will the same remark prove true ! 
What encouragement is thus given to the industrious ! 
With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negli- 
gence, which suffers the most interesting and important 
truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to 
the ground, through mere sluggishness in the delivery ! 
How unworthy of one who performs the high function 
of a religious instructor — upon whom depend, in a great 
measure, the religious knowledge, and devotional senti- 
ment, and final character, of many fellow-beings — to 
imagine that he can worthily discharge this great con- 
cern by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not 
how, and in a manner he has taken no pains to render 
correct, impressive, or attractive ! and which, simply 
through that want of command over himself which 
study would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, 
feeble, trifling ! It has been said of the good preacher, 

" That truths divine come mended from his tongue." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 4] 

Alas ! they come ruined and worthless from such a man 
as this ! They lose that holy energy by which they are 
to convert the soul and purify man for heaven, and sink, 
in interest and efficacy, below the level of those princi- 
ples which govern the ordinary affairs of this lower 
world. 



EXERCISE XXVII. 
THE SPIRIT OF WAR. 

Men rush to the contest not only to gratify their own 
martial passion, but to partake in the glory which crowns 
great feats of arms. The military feeling is too easily 
excited in this country for our welfare. It is one of the 
most unfavorable signs of our political times, that bril- 
liant success in war is such a ready passport to the 
highest confidence and estimation of the people. It 
seems as if the skill that can gain a battle was connected 
in very many minds with every talent and virtue under 
heaven. 

Because we have had a General Washington, who 
gave victory to our arms, many seem to think that all 
successful generals must be Washingtons, and that the 
exchange of a conquering sword for the sceptre of civil 
dominion in the father of his country, has fixed the model 
for all succeeding ages. So war has become a manu- 
facturing of candidates for office. Every new field of 
blood is another step towards the civil promotion of some 
of the combatants, — to shoot and be shot at, is a quali- 
fication for office ; hence men will put on the plume and 
epaulet, and hasten to the scene of strife, to gain politi- 
cal distinction by killing men. General Taylor's camp 
has rivalled Congress with multitudes who thirst for 
distinction, and the road to Mexico has become the path 
to the highest honors of the state. 

Some of the members of Congress have exchanged the 
Honorable for the Colonel, and have left the arena of 
combat at Washington, for the bloody field of Mexico, 
to gain, by the valorous use of the sword, that elevation 
which they could not reach by eloquence of debate. The 
4* 



42 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

common soldier, who cannot lift his eyes so high as to the 
summits of political distinction, hurries away from the 
quiet pursuits of life, to partake in the strifes of a success- 
ful campaign, and acquire a petty renown among the 
inhabitants of his native village. When shall a just 
estimate of the requisites of our national safety, and a 
proper application of those talents and pursuits which 
tend in the highest manner to develop the humane and 
noble theory of our republican institutions, check that 
excess of military feeling which bestows such undue 
honors on the achievements of mighty warriors 1 



EXERCISE XXVIII. 
WAR AND PEACE. 

War crushes with bloody heel all justice, all happi- 
ness, all that is godlike in man. " It is," says the 
eloquent Robert Hall, " the temporary repeal of all the 
principles of virtue." True, it cannot be disguised that 
there are passages in its dreary annals cheered by deeds 
of generosity and sacrifice. Bat the virtues which shed 
their charm over its horrors are all borrowed of Peace ; 
they are emanations of the spirit of love, which is so 
strong in the heart of man that it survives the rudest 
assaults. The flowers of gentleness, of kindliness, of 
fidelity, of humanity, which flourish in unregarded 
luxuriance in the rich meadows of Peace, receive un- 
wonted admiration when we discern them in war, like 
violets shedding their perfume on the perilous edges of 
the precipice, beyond the smiling borders of civilization. 

God be praised for all the examples of magnanimous 
virtue which he has vouchsafed to mankind ! God be 
praised that the Roman emperor, about to start on a 
distant expedition of war, encompassed by squadrons of 
cavalry and by golden eagles which moved in the winds, 
stooped from his saddle to listen to the prayer of the 
humble widow, demanding justice for the death of her 
son ! God be praised that Sydney, on the field of battle, 
gave with dying hand the cup of cold water to the dying 
soldier ! That single act of self-forgetful sacrifice has 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 43 

consecrated the fenny field of Zutphen far, oh! far 
beyond its battle ; it has consecrated thy name, gallant 
Sydney, beyond any feat of thy sAvord, beyond any 
triumph of thy pen ! But there are hands outstretched 
elsewhere than on fields of blood, for so little as a cup 
of cold water ; the world is full of opportunities for deeds 
of kindness. Let me not be told, then, of the virtues of 
War. Let not the acts of generosity and sacrifice which 
have triumphed on its fields be invoked in its defence. 
In the words of Oriental imagery, the poisonous tree, 
though watered by nectar, can produce only the fruit of 
death ! 

As we cast our eyes over the history of nations, we 
discern with horror the succession of murderous slaugh- 
ters by which their progress has been marked. As the 
hunter traces the wild beast, when pursued to his lair, 
by the drops of blood on the earth, so we follow Man, 
faint, weary, staggering with wounds, through the black 
forest of the past, which he has reddened with his gore. 
Oh ! let it not be in the future ages as in those which 
we now contemplate. Let the grandeur of man be dis- 
cerned in the blessings which he has secured; in the 
good he has accomplished ; in the triumphs of benevo- 
lence and justice ; in the establishment of perpetual 
peace ! 

As the ocean washes every shore, and clasps, with 
all-embracing arms, every land, while it bears on its 
heaving bosom the products of various climes ; so Peace 
surrounds, protects, and upholds all other blessings. 
Without it, commerce is vain, the ardor of industry is re- 
strained, happiness is blasted, virtue sickens and dies. 



EXERCISE XXIX. 
PROVIDENTIAL AGENCY. 

It is, I think, the great error and fault of our times 
and country, that but little reliance is placed on the 
overruling and cooperating agency of God, and but little 
room allowed for it, in the calculations and projects of 
men. The philanthropists and reformers of the age, 



44 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

especially, seem to be unmindful of Providential agency. 
They, as well as the politicians, speak and act as though 
the salvation of mankind depended upon the adoption of 
certain measures of theirs, and the cause of human lib- 
erty and progress rested mainly on the success of their 
schemes and efforts. Indeed, there is a too general, if 
not an almost universal, tendency to look to modifica- 
tions of government, acts of legislation and associated 
movements, as the sole means of promoting the welfare 
of communities. Men allow themselves to identify the 
cause of liberty and righteousness with their own favor- 
ite notions and projects; and, having come to the con- 
clusion that they must have their way or all will be lost, 
pursue their purposes with a fanatical, overbearing and 
unscrupulous spirit. 

The oppressions and persecutions with which man- 
kind have been afflicted from the beginning have sprung, 
not from malignity or cruelty, but from the fatal persua- 
sion that the welfare and redemption of the race are 
inseparably connected with the prevalence of some par- 
ticular service, or creed, or government. The same 
cause produces, as far as circumstances allow, the same 
effect now. The theologian, when he witnesses the de- 
cline of any of his own favorite dogmas, feels that the 
rock on which the Saviour planted his church is crum- 
bling beneath it. The politician, when the elections have 
terminated in the overthrow of his party and the access 
to power of his opponents, sinks into despair of the 
republic. The philanthropist, when the particular plan 
he has long been urging upon the public, as the only 
adequate means of ameliorating the condition and re- 
moving the wrongs of his fellow-men, is discredited and 
discarded, is too apt to abandon his hopes of humanity, 
and lose his faith as well as his temper. 

The element in which they are all deficient is an 
abiding, intelligent, steadfast assurance that God, as 
well as they, is at work reforming and blessing the 
world. Instead of assuming, as they attempt to do, the 
entire command of events, if they would but pause, from 
time to time, and trace the steps of the All-wise and 
Omnipotent Disposer, and await with serene and cheer- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 45 

fill confidence the movements of the Divine Agency, a 
path of most efficient and benignant action would be 
opened to them, and their efforts be crowned with sure 
and permanent success. 



EXERCISE XXX. 
TEMPERANCE." 

The progress of temperance, during the last few years, 
has been brilliant and rapid beyond all former precedent. 
Hundreds of thousands of our countrymen, who never 
drank to excess, have bound themselves to perpetual 
abstinence, while multitudes of moderate drinkers and 
drunkards have subscribed with their hands that instru- 
ment, which, if faithfully kept, will secure them forever 
from the curse of intemperance. Thousands of families 
which were suffering all the accumulated woes of in- 
temperance, are now blessed with the comforts and en- 
joyments of life. 

Want, which stood, like an armed man, at the very 
threshold of their doors, has been driven away, and 
plenty crowns their board. Misery, which stalked 
among them like the spectre of despair, has left them 
forever ; while the Angel of Happiness spreads over them 
her wings all radiant with feathers of gold, and the star 
of hope throws its silver light around their path. Look 
over our land ; enter the populous cities, strewn all along 
the Atlantic coast and far into the interior, mark the vil- 
lages that everywhere meet the eye, and behold the 
wonderful change that has been effected in the customs 
and habits of their inhabitants, and if you do not ex- 
claim, in the language of Holy Writ, "What hath God 
wrought!" you must be destitute of the high and enno- 
bling attributes of humanity. 

It transcends the power of the human mind to com- 
pute, in all their length and breadth, in all their glory 
and grandeur, the blessed fruits of the temperance reform. 
It has transformed brutes into men, — men of refined 
sensibilities, of noble, god-like powers of intelligence. It 
has taken the beggar from the gutter, and placed him 



46 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



among the princes and potentates of the earth. It has 
lifted the crushed and bruised spirit of the wife, whose 
frame was too delicate for the winds of heaven to visit 
roughly, whose mental susceptibilities were too exquisite 
to endure the rude insults of the drunkard, and who was 
trampled under foot and made the veriest slave of her 
brutal lord; it has raised the spirit of this woman, thus 
abject and woe-begone, to the heights of hope and happi- 
ness, placed a new song in her mouth, and awakened in 
her breast immortal hopes and aspirations. It has taken 
the little child, whose only dream was of misery, into 
its arms, and blessed it. It has thrown over the face of 
society a light, like that of another sun risen upon mid- 
noon; and you and I, and millions more, walk in its 
brightness, scarcely conscious of its surpassing glory. 



EXERCISE XXXI. 
POPULAR INSTITUTIONS. 

Our popular institutions are favorable to intellectual 
improvement, because their foundation is in dear nature. 
They do not consign the greater part of the social frame 
to torpidity and mortification. They send out a vital 
nerve to every member of the community, by which its 
talent and power, great or small, are brought into living 
conjunction and strong sympathy with the kindred in- 
tellect of the nation ; and every impression on every part 
vibrates with electric rapidity through the whole. They 
encourage nature to perfect her work ; they make educa- 
tion, the soul's nutriment, cheap ; they bring up remote 
and shrinking talent into the cheerful field of competi- 
tion ; in a thousand ways they provide an audience for 
lips which nature has touched with persuasion; they 
put a lyre into the hands of genius ; they bestow on all 
who deserve it, or seek it, the only patronage worth hav- 
ing, the only patronage that ever struck out a spark of 
"celestial fire,*' — the patronage of fair opportunity. 

This is a day of improved education ; new systems of 
teaching are devised ; modes of instruction, choice of 
studies, adaptation of text-books, the whole machinery 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 47 

of means, have been brought, in our day, under severe 
revision. But were I to attempt to point out the most 
efficacious and comprehensive improvement in educa- 
tion, the engine, by which the greatest portion of mind 
could be brought and kept under cultivation, the disci- 
pline which would reach farthest, sink deepest, and 
cause the word of instruction, not to spread over the sur- 
face like an artificial hue, carefully laid on, but to pen- 
etrate to the heart and soul of its objects, it would be 
popular institutions. Give the people an object in pro- 
moting education, and the best methods will infallibly 
be suggested by that instinctive ingenuity of our nature 
which provides means for great and precious ends. Give 
the people an object in promoting education, and the 
worn hand of labor will be opened to the last farthing, 
that its children may enjoy means denied to itself. This 
great contest about black-boards and sand-tables will 
then lose something of its importance, and even the ex- 
alted names of Bell and Lancaster may sink from that 
very lofty height where an over hasty admiration has 
placed them. 



EXEECISE XXXII. 
REFLECTIONS AT BTOUNT AUBURN. 

Entering Mount Auburn, I ascended an eminence, 
and with feelings attuned to pensiveness, I threw my- 
self upon the earth, at the foot of an ancient oak, and 
pored upon the scene. In a reverie I gazed upon the 
green landscape beneath, sleeping in the calm sunshine 
at my feet, and fading away in the distance into the soft 
blue hills that skirted the horizon. I turned my,eye to 
the east, where Boston, swelling up with her proud 
domes and glittering spires, marked her noble outline 
upon the clear sky ; and a feeling of awe came over me 
as I contemplated that majestic form, lifting its mass of 
stately architecture into the air, with a commanding 
grandeur, as if demanding the gazer's homage to the 
Queen of the North. 

"This," said I, "is the city of riches and splendor; 



-IS THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

there lie her fleets ; there throng her thousands of mer- 
chants and tradesmen : there stand her palaces and her 
temples : there shine her halls and saloons, the abodes 
of wealth and the home of gayety and fashion ; there 
throng her countless swarms of busy citizens, those mul- 
titudes that roar and thunder like a mountain stream 
within her limits, but of whom scarce a faint murmur 
conies to my ear upon the passing breeze. Shall those 
lordly domes and ambitious roofs c-rumble to dust, and 
leave not a wreck behind? Is that gay and eager mass, 
now teeming with young life and enjoyment, and shin- 
ing as if earth contained no tomb, nought but such stuff 
as dreams are made of) Are they no more than the 
poor tenants of a little life that is rounded with a sleep? 
•Yes. those cloud-capped towers shall fall : those fair 
bosoms now burning with high hope, those bright eyes 
that beam with love, shall close in darkness. Man of 
wealth, thy princely mansion shall forget thy name ! 
Maiden of the blooming cheek, to-morrow shall the ring 
sparkle and the hall resound, but none shall think of 
thee ! The generation, too, that cometh shall stay but 
for a time. The Queen of the North shall bow her head 
and fall — and no citv shall be eternal but the City of the 
Dead!' - 



EXEKCISE XXXHI. 
MAN A SOCIAL BEING. 

Man has an individual and he has a social being. He 
has duties to himself and duties to his fellow-men. He 
has a selfish and he has a sympathizing nature. He is 
bound in duty to regard his interests as an individual, 
to labor for the comforts of life — to accumulate for the 
necessities of age. He is also bound to interest himself 
in the prosperity of those around him. If successful, 
to aid the unfortunate. If endowed with health and 
strength, to comfort the sick and distressed : to drop a 
tear of pity over the erring and misguided, to bind up 
the broken-hearted, and administer hope and consolation 
to those whom the roueh surges of the world have crushed 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 4'J 

down to earth. His duties are as important as they are 
varied. Life has its responsibilities and its labors. Dis- 
regard or neglect them, and you oppose the great design 
of the Maker of the universe. Fulfil them, and the 
reward will be sweet and rich, in the calm delights of a 
satisfied conscience, in the feeling that life has not been 
as an idle dream, in the undefinable pleasure excited by 
the tokens of gratitude, deep from the hearts of those 
you have succored and saved. 

Let us know, then, our duties, to perform them. Let us 
seek to appreciate, not only what directly interests us as 
individuals, but whatever concerns us in our relations 
to our fellow-men, our connection as social beings, our 
sympathies as brethren of one great family. We are by 
nature social beings, born and capacitated for society. 
We are no 'more fitted for solitude than the eagle for the 
dungeon. Seclusion from society enervates the mind, 
impairs the faculties, and blunts the moral nature; while 
communion with our fellow-men warms the soul with 
a fervent glow, inspires the mind for its noblest and most 
glorious labors, and infuses an energy and a life to all, 
which forces the individual onward and upward. 

Our social being is necessary to our individual happi- 
ness and advancement. They are indissolubly welded 
together, and no circumstances or habits can completely 
separate them. For a man to say that he cares not for 
others — that he will act without reference to the happi- 
ness and interests of those around him — shows that he is 
not only an unhappy but an ignorant man. We can no 
more divest ourselves of our responsibilities to our fel- 
low-men, than we can put an end to our moral account- 
ability. Tbis responsibility commences with our exist- 
ence, and terminates with our lives. 

The moment we come in contact with our fellow- 
beings, that moment we are bound to enter into a mutual 
contract, to respect certain inalienable individual rights, 
though they conflict with or abridge our own immediate 
pleasure or profit — to allow claims which may restrict 
our liberties, and perform duties from which we receive 
no direct benefit. We enter into an involuntary associa- 
tion, from which we cannot recede, and to whose regu- 



50 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

lations we must be subservient. In plainer words, we 
enter into society. We become component parts of the 
great social system. As I have said, we are formed for 
this by nature. We enter into it without our consent, 
and assume its moral responsibilities, from which we 
cannot escape. But nature, by placing us in this con- 
nection, and imposing these duties and responsibilities, 
is not unmindful of our happiness. For, to incite us to 
perform our duties to others, Ave have implanted within 
us deep and irresistible emotions, welling forth from 
our inmost hearts, emotions active and ever-living; they 
are emotions of sympathy and love. They are natural 
and innate. If rightly cherished, they inspire us with 
an affection toward all around us. First nurtured in the 
family circle, kindled at the family altar, they increase, 
until they embrace in their glowing conceptions the 
whole human race. They form a bright and golden 
chain, which entwines itself around and leads a willing 
captive the human heart. 



EXERCISE XXXIV. 
THE DEATH OF J. Q. ADAMS. * 

Mr. Adams must be pronounced happy in the circum- 
stances of his death, as his course through life had been 
marked and glorious. No excesses of a profligate youth, 
no vices of middle life, had shattered and hurried to a 
premature dissolution the body in which such an incor- 
ruptible spirit resided. Nothing in his habits of life 
interfered with nature, to whose gentle influences it was 
left to destroy gradually, and to restore, in a good old 
age, to its parent dust, the perishable part of our friend. 
The law of mortality, which knows no exception among 
the passing generations of our race, was executed in his 
case with as much tenderness and reserve, so to speak, 
as is ever permitted by Providence. The Angel of Death 
came to him a year before his departure, with a sum- 

* This, and the following Exercise, were taken from the eloquent discourse 
of the Rev. Wm. P. Lunt, at the funeral of J. Q.. Adams. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 51 

mons, which seemed to anxious friends to bo peremp- 
tory and final. But we can imagine an expression of 
reluctance in the angel's face, as she turned away and 
kindly said, " Not yet." And there is reason to believe, 
that the year which was thus spared to the venerable 
patriot has been a happy one. It was, in fact, the Indian 
summer of his life. 

He was not left to be an object of compassion to 
friends and admirers. No painful contrasts forced them 
to revert in memory to better days. But with a mind 
unimpaired ; with an interest in life unabated ; with a 
cheerful relish of the same simple pleasures that he had 
ever enjoyed ; with a self-command which protracted 
sickness had not destroyed ; with a heart still warm and 
open to the impressions of nature and the universe ; with 
an eye that still ranged with delight through the starry 
spaces, or watched the intricate and intervolved orbits 
of men's passions and opinions on the nearer theatre of 
political, social, and religious life upon the earth ; on the 
chosen field of his labors ; in the place where his best 
services to his country had been rendered, and his noblest 
triumphs had been won ; ministered to by the represent- 
atives of the nation, from North, South, East, and 
West, he passed to his rest. The Angel of Death, when 
she came again to execute her office, left him only the 
consciousness that it was " the last of earth ;" then 
drew a veil of oblivion over his faculties, and sat beside 
his couch two days, before the cord that bound him to 
this world was severed. 



EXERCISE XXXV. 
J. Q. ADAMS. 

I shall not presume, on this occasion, to judge of the 
character of Mr. Adams, or to settle his claims as a 
scholar, a statesman, or a philosopher. I leave that task 
to others more competent for the office. The same prin- 
ciple which governs in criminal trials should also be 
adopted in judging of merit, absolute or relative, in any 
of the great departments of theoretical or practical life. 



52 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Let a man be tried by his peers. To his peers, if they 
can be found, I leave the departed. 

But I think no one will dissent from the statement 
that the life which has recently been closed was an emi- 
nently useful life. Mr. Adams has not lived for him- 
self. His great powers; his affluent resources; his 
abundant learning ; his memory, which held with a 
tenacious grasp whatever had once passed into the treas- 
ury of his mind; his commanding influence, beyond, 
probably, what any individual among his contemporary 
countrymen has ever exercised over public opinion ; his 
dreaded controversial skill, which, like the mill -stone in 
Scripture, was fatal alike to those on whom it fell, and 
to those who fell upon it ; the numerous offices which 
he has filled, from the time when, as a lad, he went to 
St. Petersburg as private secretary to the minister to 
that court, through more than fifty years of public ser- 
vice abroad and at home, down to the very moment of 
his death; — all these gifts, native and acquired, have 
been used by him to promote the welfare of his country 
and of mankind. 

He has been, what the Scripture declares the good 
magistrate to be, " a minister of God for good" to his 
native land. In peace and in war ; in foreign courts, 
contending against the insolence of power, and thread- 
ing the labyrinth of political intrigue ; in forming treaties 
upon which the fortunes and lives of thousands depend- 
ed ; in adjusting territorial boundaries, and negotiating 
for an extension of our national domain ; in guiding the 
ship of state, often amidst shoals and rocks, and with a 
crew half disposed to mutiny ; in maturing and carrying 
into execution, so far as he was allowed to do it, a wise 
prospective national policy ; in efforts to promote the 
cause of education, of science, of freedom, of morals, of 
religion ; — he has lived for others; he has laid upon the 
altar of his country and his God his exalted talents. And 
this trait in his character is to be in a great measure 
traced to the counsels of that admirable mother, that 
more than Roman, that Christian matron, who stamped 
upon his impressible mind the image of her own virtues, 
and who charged him, from a child, to consecrate his 
faculties to his country and to his Creator. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 53 

EXERCISE XXXVI. 
. MOTIVES FOR ACTION. 

The most powerful motives call on us, as scholars, 
for those efforts which our common country demands 
of all her children. Most of us are of that class who owe 
whatever of knowledge has shone into our minds to the 
free and popular institutions of our native land. There 
are few of us who may not be permitted to boast that 
we have been reared in an honest poverty or a frugal 
competence, and owe everything to those means of edu- 
cation which are equally open to all. We are sum- 
moned to new energy and zeal by the high nature of the 
experiment we are appointed in Providence to make, 
and the grandeur of the theatre on which it is to be per- 
formed. 

When the old world afforded no longer any hope, it 
pleased Heaven to open this last refuge of humanity. 
The attempt has begun, and. is going on, far from foreign 
corruption, on the broadest scale, and under the most 
benignant prospects ; and it certainly rests with us to 
solve the great problem in human society, to settle, and 
that forever, the momentous question — whether man- 
kind can be trusted with a purely popular system? 
One might almost think, without extravagance, that the 
departed wise and good of all places and times are look- 
ing down from their happy seats to witness what shall 
now be done by us ; that they who have lavished, their 
treasures and their blood of old, who labored and suf- 
fered, who spake and wrote, who fought and perished, 
in the one great cause of Freedom and Truth, are now 
hanging from their orbs on high, over the last solemn 
experiment of humanity. 

As I have wandered over the spots, once the scene of 
their labors, and mused among the prostrate columns of 
their senate-houses and forums, I have seemed almost 
to hear a voice from the tombs of departed ages ; from 
the sepulchres of the nations which died before the sight. 
They exhort us, they adjure us to be faithful to our 
trust. They implore us, by the long trials of struggling 
humanity, by the blessed memory of the departed ; by 



04 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

the dear faith, which has been plighted, by pure hands, 
to the holy cause of truth and man ; by the awful secrets 
of the prison houses, where the sons' of freedom have 
been immured ; by the noble heads which have been 
brought to the block ; by the wrecks of time, by the elo- 
quent ruins of nations, they conjure us not to quench 
the light which is rising on the world. 



EXERCISE XXXVII. 

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS FOR AN EXHIBITION.* 

We greet with joy this happy day, 
And we will drive dull care away ; — 
Hearts full of cheer, we '11 never fear, 
While we in Wisdom's ways appear : 
For all good people tell me so, — 
And I am sure they ought to know, — 
That Wisdom's ways are good and true, 
And all her paths are peaceful, too. 

Dear parents and friends : — We are glad you have 
come to visit us on this interesting occasion, and we 
hope you will not be disappointed. We have come here, 
at this time, to show you, by our good conduct, and by 
the improvement we have made in our studies, that our 
time has not been wasted, and that the privileges you 
have provided for us have not been wholly misimproved. 
If we have not always done the best we could, we are 
sorry for it, and promise to try to do better, in future. 
But we do think that we have done well, and that we 
have learned a great many useful things. Besides what 
we have learned from our books, our teacher has told us 
many things, which, if we remember them, will help to 
make us wise, and good, and happy, all our days. For all 
that he has done for us, we thank him, from our young 
and grateful hearts, and we feel that God will bless him 
too. But some of us are very young, and know but 
little ; and we ask you not to 

View us with a critic's eye, 
But pass our imperfections by. 

* If the lines at the commencement and close are sung, it will add to the 
interest of this Exercise. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 55 

And now, — I'm glad to say to you, 
Our duty we will try to do, 
And never play the idle fool, 
Nor waste our precious time in school : 
For all good people tell me so, — 
And I am sure they ought to know, — 
That Wisdom's ways are good and true, 
And all her paths are peaceful too. 



EXERCISE XXXVIII. 
THE PROVINCE OF FAITH. 

Who has ever stood by the architectural ruins of other 
days, whether in India, in her gigantic underground 
temples, excavated from the solid rock, or in Egypt, 
amid her pyramids and gigantic colonnades, and ruined 
cities, or amid the ruins of Mexico and Yucatan, or the 
mysterious but silent mounds of the great West, and not 
wished to wake from oblivion the history of those nations 
which left their intellectual impress on these works, and 
by them unfolded the emotions of their hearts 1 

But what palace so splendid as this glorious universe, 
in the midst of which we dwell, and through which we 
rove ? How is it filled with every form of beauty and 
sublimity, and constructed, in all its parts, according to 
the most exquisite rules of art ! How do the gentle 
breezes or the tempestuous gales, the murmuring brooks 
or the raging ocean, or the countless tenants of earth 
and air, commingle and vary those ceaseless anthems of 
praise which ascend before the throne of the eternal 
King ! 

And yet, till the eye is opened by faith, the highest 
and most glorious occupants of this vast palace remain 
unseen, unheard ; their ends and sympathies, and joys 
and sorrows, and hopes and fears, are all unknown. 

The chemist can analyze and arrange every element 
of the whole system ; the geologist can investigate the 
structure of the earth ; the natural philosopher may de- 
velop the laws of the atmosphere, of fluids, or of sounds. 
or trace the lightning in its rapid course ; the astronomer 
may penetrate immeasurable realms of space, and dis- 



Ot> THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

close orb on orb, and system on system, till the mind is 
overwhelmed and lost in the splendor of the scene ; the 
mathematician may calculate with unerring precision 
the times and seasons of the material system; the histo- 
rian, the musician, the painter, the poet, the sculptor, 
the architect, the linguist, and the philosopher, may each 
traverse and investigate his appropriate sphere, and yet, 
not one, or all combined, can penetrate into that higher 
spiritual system, for which this material universe was 
made and exists. 

The light which illuminates these regions of glory 
proceeds direct from God himself, the Eternal Sun, and 
is received by the eye of faith alone. 



EXERCISE XXXIX. 
INTRODUCTORY PIECE FOR AN EVENING EXHIBITION. 

Respected parents and friends : — In behalf of my teach- 
ers and schoolmates, I, this evening, bid you a cordial 
welcome to this our pleasant schoolroom. Here we are 
wont to meet from day to day, and spend many hours 
in attending to those studies which will prepare us to 
discharge, usefully, the duties of subsequent life. We 
have spent some of our happiest hours in this room, and 
have only to regret that we have not been more diligent, 
and more attentive to our duties as members of this 
school. With this regret for errors of the past, we feel 
a strong determination better to improve the future, so 
that each passing moment shall bear with it a good 
record. 

To your attention and kindness we feel greatly in- 
debted for the privileges we here enjoy, and we trust that 
we feel truly grateful. We have invited you to meet us 
here this evening, with the hope that an hour may be 
spent which shall be mutually interesting and profitable. 
In judging of the exercises, to which you may this eve- 
ning listen, we beg that 

" You'll not view us with a critic's eye, 
But pass our imperfections by." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 57 

We wish yon to remember that we are but children, 
and that childhood's errors will probably mark our per- 
formances. We will try to feel that we are surrounded 
by our dearest friends, and if we shall, in any degree, 
succeed in causing this evening to pass in a manner 
agreeable to you, we shall feel amply compensated for 
all our efforts. 

For myself, for my teachers, and for these, my com- 
panions, I tender you heartfelt and sincere thanks for 
all past acts of favor and kindness. Especially would 
we remember, with grateful feelings, those who have 
devoted so much time and manifested so much interest 
for our good, — the members of the school committee. 
We hope no one of them will ever have occasion to feel 
that he has been dishonored by the dishonorable acts of 
any pupil of this school. 

We have been placed under weighty obligation, and 
we feel that much may justly be expected of us. That 
we may properly appreciate and improve our privileges 
so that we may become intelligent, useful and valuable 
members of society, we bespeak your continued care and 
watchfulness ; and, in return for them, Ave will endeav- 
or so to improve our time and opportunities as to de- 
serve and secure your hearty approbation. 



EXERCISE XL. 
THE MEMORY OF THE GOOD. 

Why is it that the names of Howard, and Thornton, 
and Clarkson, and Wilberforce, will be held in everlast- 
ing remembrance 7 Is it not chiefly on account of their 
goodness, their Christian philanthropy, the overflowing 
and inexhaustible benevolence of their great minds'? 
Such men feel that they were not born for themselves, 
nor for the narrow circle of their kindred and acquaint- 
ances, but for the world, and for posterity. They delight 
in doing good on a great scale. Their talents, their 
property, their time, their knowledge, and experience, 
and influence, they hold in constant requisition for the 
benefit of the poor, the oppressed, and the perishing. 



58 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



You may trace them along the whole pathway of life, 
by the blessings which they scatter far and wide. They 
may be likened to yon noble river, which carries glad- 
ness and fertility, from state to state, through all the 
length of that rejoicing valley, which it was made to 
bless, — or to those summer showers which pour glad- 
ness and plenty over all the regions that they visit, till 
they melt away into the glorious effulgence of the set- 
ting sun. 

Such a man was Howard, the prisoner's friend. Chris- 
tian philanthropy was the element in which he lived and 
moved, and out of which life would have been intoler- 
able. It was to him that kings listened with astonish- 
ment, as if doubtful from what world of pure disinterest- 
edness he had come. To him despair opened her dun- 
geons, and plague and pestilence could summon no ter- 
rors to arrest his investigations. In his presence, crime, 
though girt with the iron panoply of desperation, stood 
amazed and rebuked. With him home was nothing, 
country was nothing, health was nothing, life was noth- 
ing. His first and last question was, "What is the 
utmost that I can do for degraded, depraved, bleeding 
humanity, in all her prison houses?" And what won- 
ders did he accomplish ! what astonishing changes in the 
whole system of prison discipline may be traced back to 
his disclosures and suggestions, and how many millions, 
yet to be born, will rise up and call him blessed ! Away, 
all ye Csesars and Napoleons, to your own dark and 
frightful domains of slaughter and misery ! Ye can no 
more endure the light of such a godlike presence, than 
the eye, already inflamed to torture by dissipation, can 
look the sun in the face at noonday. 



EXERCISE XLI. 
THE MOTHER LAND. 

What American does not feel proud that he is descend- 
ed from the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton and of 
Locke ? Who does not know, that while every pulse 



THE AMEKICAN SPEAKER. 59 

of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat 
warm and full in the bosom of our fathers, the sobriety, 
the firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of 
free principles struggled into existence here, constantly 
found encouragement and countenance from the sons of 
liberty there '? Who does not remember that when the 
Pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the faithful 
British confessors, in all the quarters of their dispersion, 
went over with them, while their aching eyes were 
strained, till the star of hope should go up in the western 
skies'] And who will ever forget that in that eventful 
struggle which severed this mighty empire from the 
British crown, there was not heard, throughout our con- 
tinent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights 
of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham, within 
the walls of the British parliament, and at the foot of 
the British throne 7 No, for myself, I can truly say, 
that after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a 
reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in 
my own country makes me respect that from which we 
are sprung. 

In touching the soil of England, I seem to return like 
a descendant to the old family seat ; — to come back to 
the abode of an aged, the tomb of a departed, parent. I 
acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The 
sound of my native language, beyond the sea, is a music 
to my ear, beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness, 
or Castilian majesty. I am not yet in a land of stran- 
gers, while surrounded by the manners, the habits, the 
forms in which I have been brought up. I wander de- 
lighted through a thousand scenes, which the historians, 
the poets, have made familiar to us, — of which the 
names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I 
tread with reverence the spots where I can retrace the 
footsteps of our suffering fathers ; the pleasant land of 
their birth has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a 
classic, yea, a holy land, rich in the memories of the 
great and good ; the martyrs of liberty, the exiled her- 
alds of truth ; and richer as the parent of this land of 
promise in the west. 

I am not — I need not say I am not — the pane- 



60 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

gyrist of England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor 
awed by her power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the 
coronet, stars, garters and blue ribbons, seem to me poor 
things for great men to contend for. Nor is my admira- 
tion awakened by her armies, mustered for the battles 
of Europe; her navies, overshadowing the ocean; nor 
her empire, grasping the farthest east. It is these, and 
the price of guilt and blood by which they are main- 
tained, which are the cause why no friend of liberty can 
salute her with undivided affections. But it is the 
refuge of free principles, though often persecuted ; the 
school of religious liberty, the more precious for the 
struggles to which it has been called ; the tombs of those 
who have reflected honor on all who speak the English 
tongue; it is the birthplace of our fathers, the home of 
the pilgrims ; it is these which I love and venerate in 
England. I should feel ashamed of an enthusiasm for 
Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a land like this. 
In an American it would seem to me degenerate and un- 
grateful, to hang with passion upon the traces of Homer 
and Virgil, and follow without emotion the nearer and 
plainer footsteps of Shakspeare and Milton ; and I should 
think him cold in his love for his native land, who felt 
no melting in his heart for that other native land, which 
holds the ashes of his forefathers. 



EXERCISE XLII. 



The instructive lesson of history, teaching by exam- 
ple, can nowhere be studied with more profit, or with a 
better promise, than in the revolutionary period of Amer- 
ica ; and especially by us, who sit. under the tree our 
fathers have planted, enjoy its shade, and are nourished 
by its fruits. But little is our merit, or gain, that we 
applaud their deeds, unless we emulate their virtues. 
Love of country was in them an absorbing principle, an 
undivided feeling ; not of a fragment, a section, but of the 
whole country. Union was the arch on which they 
raised the strong tower of a nation's independence. Let 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 61 

the arm be palsied that would loosen one stone in the basis 
of this fair structure, or mar its beauty ; the tongue mute 
that would dishonor their names, by calculating the 
value of that which they deemed without price. 

They" have left us an example already inscribed in the 
world's memory ; an example portentous to the aims of 
tyranny in every land ; an example that will console in 
all ages the drooping aspirations of oppressed humanity. 
They have left us a written charter, as a legacy, and as 
a guide to our course. But every day convinces us that 
a written charter may become powerless. Ignorance 
may misinterpret it ; ambition may assail, and faction 
destroy its vital parts ; and aspiring knavery may at last 
sing its requiem on the tomb of departed liberty. It is the 
spirit which lives; in this is our safety and our hope, — 
the spirit of our fathers ; and while this dwells deeply in 
our remembrance, and its flame is cherished, ever burn- 
ing, ever pure, on the altar of our hearts ; while it incites 
us to think as they have thought, and to do as they have 
done, the honor and the praise will be ours, to have pre- 
served unimpaired the rich inheritance which they so 
nobly achieved. 



EXERCISE XLIII. 
INDIVIDUAL ENERGY AND ACTION. 

The principle of individual intelligence, ingenuity, and 
resolution, pervading the people of New England, is cover- 
ing the land with its monuments and trophies. In every 
form in which skill can combine with labor, — mechan- 
ism, in the infinite applications of science and processes 
of art, in patient researches into nature, and in all de- 
partments of mental activity ; in solitary adventure, or 
in associated companies, religious, moral, political, or 
financial, — directing the resources of multitudes with 
the accuracy and efficiency of a single intelligence and 
will, — it is working incalculable effects. 

It turns barrenness into fertility, straightens the wind- 
ing and crooked paths, smooths down every rugged ob- 
stacle, accelerates speed, reduces cost, multiplies busi- 
ness, creates wealth, draws useless rivers from their 
6 



62 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

ancient beds into navigable and secure artificial chan- 
nels, awakens the hum of inventive, animated, and well- 
rewarded industry, along the banks of every descending 
stream, opens with its touch the bosom of the earth to 
give forth its mineral treasures, converts the ice of our 
northern lakes into a most welcome article of world-wide 
commerce, and sinking its quarries into the bare and 
desolate mountains, manipulates the shapeless granite 
into forms of architectural grace and beauty, and spreads 
them in classic colonnades and lofty structures along the 
streets of distant cities. 

Sons of New England ! your ancestors relied on the 
power of their own arms ; upon their own ingenuity, 
skill, personal industry and enterprise. They never 
looked, for the chief blessings of life, to the government. 
They did not expect that freedom, prosperity, or hap- 
piness, were to be secured to their posterity by legisla- 
tion, or any form of political administration ; but they 
planted the seed which was to bear the precious fruits, 
in the awakened, enlightened, and invigorated mental 
energies of their descendants. For this, they provided 
their system of universal education ; and, if you would 
be worthy of your ancestry, you must do likewise. 

Look not to legislation, or to official patronage, or to 
any public resources or aids, to make yourselves or your 
children prosperous, powerful and happy. But trust 
to your and their energy of character, and enlightened 
minds, and persevering enterprise and industry. Cherish 
these traits, and they will work out, in the future, the 
same results as in the past. The earth will everywhere 
blossom beneath you. . You will be sure of exerting 
your rightful influence in every community. You will 
be placed beyond the reach of injustice and oppression. 
Rash and weak counsels may involve the foreign rela- 
tions of the confederacy ; short-sighted or perverse legis- 
lation may do its worst to embarrass your interests ; but 
if you resolutely apply your own resources of industry, 
skill, and enterprise, to circumstances as they rise, you 
will be able to turn them to your advantage, and the 
great essential of democratic sovereignty will be guaran- 
tied to you, the pursuit and attainment of individual 
happiness and prosperity. 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 63 

EXERCISE XLIV. 
AN APPEAL IN BEHALF OF CLINTON. 

Envy has sometimes denied the paramount merit of 
Clinton in the great enterprise of the Erie Canal. But 
the question is not whether he first made the suggestion 
of a navigable communication between the lakes and 
the Hudson. It is a fact of historic certainty, that the 
adoption, the prosecution, and the accomplishment of 
that gigantic undertaking, were owing mainly to his 
convincing statements, his vast influence, and indomi- 
table perseverance. What other man was there then, 
or has there been since, who would have accomplished 
the same 1 Who that has watched the course of events 
in New York, and the fluctuations of party legislation 
on this very subject — the canal — but may well question, 
whether, without the agency just named, it would to 
this day have been begun? To Clinton, then, as an 
honored instrument in higher hands, be the praise 
awarded ! 

Citizens of this imperial state, whose numerical power 
the canal has doubled, and whose wealth it has aug- 
mented in a ratio that defies estimation, cherish and per- 
petuate his name ! You enjoy the rich fruits which his 
foresight anticipated, and his toils secured. Let him 
rest no longer in an undistinguished grave. True, a 
name like Clinton's cannot die ! It is written oh that 
long, deep line with which he channelled the broad 
bosom of his native state : it is heard at every watery 
stair, as the floating burden sinks or rises with the gush- 
ing stream ; it is borne on each of the thousand boats 
that make the long inland voyage ; and it shines, en- 
twined with Fulton's, on all the steam-towed fleets of 
barges which sweep, in almost continuous train, the sur- 
face of the Hudson. But these are the traces of his own 
hand. It is your duty and privilege to record it too. 
Engrave it, then, in ever-during stone. Embody your 
sense of his merits in the massive pile. From the loftiest 
height of beautiful Green- Wood let the structure rise, 
a beacon at once to the city and the sea. Severe in 
beauty and grand in proportions, it should be emblem- 



64 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

atical of the man and of his works. Such a monument 
will be a perpetual remembrance of Clinton's name, and 
of his inappreciable services ; and will stand for ages, 
the fit expression of your gratitude and of his glory. 



EXERCISE XLV. 
DEATH OF ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 

The jubilee of America is turned into mourning. Its 
joy is mingled with sadness ; its silver trumpet must 
breathe a mingled strain. Henceforward and forever, 
while America exists among the nations of the earth, 
the first emotion on the fourth of July shall be of joy 
and triumph in the great event which immortalizes the 
day ; the second shall be one of chastised and tender 
recollection of the venerable men who departed on the 
morning of the jubilee. This mingled emotion of tri- 
umph and sadness has sealed the moral beauty and 
sublimity of our great anniversary. In the simple com- 
memoration of a victorious political achievement, there 
seems not enough to occupy all our purest and best feel- 
ings. The fourth of July was before a day of unshaded 
triumph, exultation, and national pride; but the Angel 
of Death has mingled in the all-glorious pageant,. to teach 
us we are men. Had our venerated fathers left us on 
any other day, the day of the united departure of two 
such men would henceforward have been remembered 
but as a day of mourning. But no w, while their decease 
has gently chastened the exultations of the triumphant 
festival, the glad banner of our independence will wave 
cheerfully over the spot where their dust reposes. 

The whole nation feels, as with one heart, that since 
it must sooner or later have been bereaved of its revered 
fathers, it could not have wished that any other had 
been the day of their decease. Our anniversary festival 
was before triumphant ; it is now triumphant and sacred. 
It before called out the young and ardent to join in the 
public rejoicings ; it now also speaks, in a touching 
voice, to the retired, to the gray-headed, to the mild 
and peaceful spirits, to the whole family of sober free- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 65 

men. With some appeal of joy, of admiration, of ten- 
derness, it henceforth addresses every American heart. 
It is henceforward, what the dying Adams pronounced 
it, a great and a good day. It is full of greatness and full 
of goodness. It is absolute and complete. The death 
of the men who declared our independence, — their death 
on the day of the jubilee, — was all that was wanting to 
the fourth of July. To die on that day, and to die to- 
gether, was all that was wanting to Jefferson and Adams. 



EXERCISE XLVI. 
THE INDIANS. 

When we were few and they were many, we were 
weak and they were strong, instead of driving us back 
into the sea, as they might have done at any time, they 
cherished our perilous infancy, and tendered to us the 
sacred emblems of peace. They gave us land, as much 
as we wanted, or sold it to us for the merest trifle. They 
permitted us quietly to clear up the wilderness, and to 
build habitations, and schoolhouses, and churches. And 
when everything began to smile around us, under the 
combined influence of industry, education, and religion, 
these savages did not come to us and say, " We want 
your houses ; we want your fine cultivated farms ; you 
must move off. There is room enough for you beyond 
the western rivers, where you may settle down on a 
better soil, and begin anew." 

Nor, when we were strongly attached to our firesides, 
and to our father's sepulchres, did they say, " You are 
mere tenants at will : we own all the land ; and if you 
insist upon staying longer, you must dissolve your gov- 
ernment, and submit to such laws as we choose to make 
for you." 

No, the Indian tribes of the seventeenth century knew 
nothing of these modern refinements ; they were no such 
adepts in the law of nature and nations. They allowed 
us to abide by our own council-fires, and to govern 
ourselves as we chose, when they could either have dis- 
possessed or subjugated us at pleasure. We did remain, 
6* 



66 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

and we gradually waxed rich and strong. We wanted 
more land, and they sold it to us at our own price. Still 
we were not satisfied. There was room enough to the 
west, and we advised them to move farther back. If 
they took our advice, well. If not, we knew how to en- 
force it. And where are those once terrible nations now 2 
Driven, alternately, by purchase and by conquest, from 
river to river, and from mountain to mountain, they have 
disappeared with their own gigantic forests ; and we, 
their enlightened heirs at law and the sword, now plough 
up their bones with as much indifference as we do their 
arrows. Shall I name the Mohegans, the Pequots, the 
Iroquois, and the Mohawks? What has become of 
them, and of a hundred other independent nations which 
dwelt on this side of the Mississippi, when we landed at 
Plymouth and at Jamestown? Here and there, as at 
Penobscot, and Marshpee, and Oneida, you may see a 
diminutive and downcast remnant, wandering like 
troubled ghosts among the graves of their mighty pro- 
genitors. Our trinkets, our threats, our arms, our whis- 
key, our bribes, and our vices, have all but annihilated 
those vast physical and intellectual energies of a native 
population, which, for more than a hundred and fifty 
years, could make us quake and flee at pleasure, through- 
out all our northern, western, and southern borders. * 
* * * * Gone is the mighty warrior, the terrible 
avenger, the heart-bursting orator! Gone is the terror 
and glory of his nation ; and gone forever, from our elder 
states, are the red men, who, like Saul and Jonathan, 
"were, swifter than eagles, and stronger than lions;" 
and who, with the light and advantages which we en- 
joy, might have rivalled us in wealth and power, in the 
senate and forum, as I am sure that they would have 
surpassed us in magnanimity and justice. 



EXERCISE XLVII. 
AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. 



Respected friends : — The occasion which has called 
us together, at this time, is one of no ordinary interest. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 67 

Again we have the pleasure of meeting those who are 
dear to us, not in the halls of mirth and gayety, not at 
the festive board,. not where political strife has a ruling 
sway over the passions of man, but where youth, in all 
their simplicity and tenderness, meet to unfold the intel- 
lect, and cherish those virtues that sustain a nation's 
glory and a nation's prosperity. 

Expect not, kind friends, that we have invited you 
here to charm you with strains of eloquence, or to ex- 
hibit ourselves as masters of the art of speaking, but 
merely to witness the efforts of children. Long and 
hard have we labored, under the guidance of our teacher, 
to acquire a store of knowledge that shall fit us for use- 
fulness in after life. Much is due to the kind and per- 
severing efforts of him who has so earnestly labored to 
bring before you so many who are willing to take an 
active part in this evening's entertainment, and we sin- 
cerely hope that our exercises will not be wholly void of 
interest. 

We feel that our privileges have been great, and, if 
we have not made improvement, we shall be obliged to 
confess that we have been negligent of our duties, and 
inattentive to the instructions of our teacher, for we are 
sure that every reasonable effort has been made to ad- 
vance us in the path of usefulness and knowledge. But, 
we humbly trust, our time and our advantages have not 
been wholly misimproved, and that we shall on this 
occasion furnish some evidence to show that we have 
accomplished something. 

We would not, at this time, forget that kind Provi- 
dence which has watched over us during the past year, 
and which has so highly favored us and our dear friends. 
While our hearts are truly grateful for the continuance 
of life, and so many of life's blessings, let us not forget 
that 

We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright, 
Like lamps that have served for a festal night ; 
We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong, 
Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along; 
The worshipped as gods in the olden day, 
We shall be like a vain dream, — passing away, 



68 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Passing away ! " sing the breeze and rill, 

As they sweep on their course by vale and hill ; — 

Through the varying scenes of each earthly clime, 

'Tis the lesson of nature, the voice of time, 

And man, at last, like his fathers gray, 

Writes in his own dust — "Passing away." 



EXERCISE XLVII1. 
THE EFFECTS OF DIVERSIFIED EMPLOYMENTS. 

In a country of few occupations, employments go down 
by an arbitrary, hereditary, coercive designation, with- 
out regard to peculiarities of individual character. The 
son of a priest is a priest ; the son of a barber is a bar- 
ber ; a man raises onions and garlic, because a certain 
other person did so when the Pyramids were building, 
centuries ago. But a diversified, advanced, and refined 
mechanical and manufacturing industry, cooperating 
with these other numerous employments of civilization 
which always surround it, offers the widest choice, de- 
tects the slightest shade of individuality, quickens into 
existence and trains to perfection the largest conceivable 
amount and the utmost possible variety of national 
mind. It goes abroad with its handmaid labors, not like 
the elegaic poet, into the churchyard, but among the 
bright tribes of living childhood and manhood, and finds 
there, in more than a figurative sense, some "mute, in- 
glorious Milton," to whom it gives a tongue and the op- 
portunity of fame ; the dauntless breast of some Hamp- 
den, still at play, yet born to strive with the tyrant of 
more than a village ; infant hands that may one day 
sway the rod of empire; hearts already "pregnant with 
celestial fire ; " future Arkwrights, and Watts, and Whit- 
neys, and Pultons, whom it leads forth to a discipline 
and a career that may work a revolution in the arts and 
commerce of the world. 

Here are five sons in a family. In some communities 
they would all become hedgers and ditchers ; in others, 
shore fishermen ; in others, hired men in the fields, or 
porters or servants in noblemen's families. But see what 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 69 

the diversified employments of civilization may make of 
them. One has a passion for contention, and danger, 
and adventure. There are the gigantic game of the sea, 
the vast fields of the Pacific, the pursuit even "beneath 
the frozen serpent of the South," for him. Another has a 
taste for trade ; he plays already at bargains and barter. 
There are Wall-street and Milk-street, and clerkships 
and agencies at Manilla, and Canton, and Rio Janeiro, 
for him. A third early and seriously inclines to the 
quiet life, the fixed habits, the hereditary opinions, and 
old ways, of his fathers ; there is the plough for him. 

Another develops, from infancy, extraordinary me- 
chanical and inventive talent ; extraordinary in degree, 
of not yet ascertained direction. You see it in his first 
whittling. There may be a Fulton, or an Arkwright ; 
there may be wrapped up the germs of an idea, which, 
realized, shall change the industry of nations, and give 
a new name to a new era. Well, there are the machine 
shops at Lowell and Providence for him ; there are cot- 
ton mills and woollen mills for him to superintend ; there 
is stationary and locomotive steam power for him to 
guide and study ; of a hundred departments and forms 
of useful art, some one will surely reach and feed the 
ruling intellectual passion. In the flashing eye, beneath 
the pale and beaming brow of that other one, you detect 
the solitary first thoughts of genius. There are the sea- 
shore of storm or calm, the waning moon, the stripes of 
summei evening cloud, traditions, and all the food of the 
soul, foi him. And so all the boys are provided for. 
Every fragment of mind is gathered up. Nothing is lost. 
Every taste, every faculty, every peculiarity of mental 
power, finds its task, does it, and is made the better 
for it. 



EXERCISE XLIX. 
OUR DUTY AS CITIZENS. 

In that unceasing march of things, which calls for- 
ward the successive generations of men to perform their 
part on the stage of life, we at length are summoned to 
appear. Our fathers have passed their hour of visita- 



70 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

tion; — how worthily, let the growth and prosperity of 
our happy land, and the security of our firesides, attest. 
Or, if this appeal be too weak to move us, let the elo- 
quent silence of yonder venerated heights,* — let the col- 
umn which is there rising in simple majesty, — recall 
their venerated forms, as they toiled, in the hasty 
trenches, through the dreary watches of that night of ex- 
pectation, heaving up the sods, where they lay, in peace 
and in honor, ere the following sun had set. The turn 
has come to us. The trial of adversity was theirs ; the 
trial of prosperity is ours. Let us meet it as men who 
know their duty, and prize their blessings. Our position 
is the most enviable, the most responsible, which men 
can fill. If this generation does its duty, the cause of 
constitutional freedom is safe. If we fail ; if we fail ; — 
not only do we defraud our children of the inheritance 
which we received from our fathers, but we blast the 
hopes of the friends of liberty throughout our continent, 
throughout Europe, throughout the world, to the end of 
time. 

History is not without her examples of hard-fought 
fields, where the banner of liberty has floated triumph- 
antly on the wildest storm of battle. She is without her 
examples of a people by whom the dear-bought treasure 
has been wisely employed and safely handed down. 
The eyes of the world are turned for that example to us. 
It is related, by an ancient historian, of that Brutus who 
slew Csssar, that he threw himself on his sword, after 
the disastrous battle of Philippi, with the bitter exclama- 
tion, that he had followed virtue as a substance, but 
found it a name. It is not too much to say, that there 
are, at this moment, noble spirits in the elder world, 
who are anxiously watching the march of our institu- 
tions, to learn whether liberty, as they have been told, 
is a mockery, a pretence, and a curse, or a blessing, for 
which it becomes them to brave the rack, the scaffold, 
and the scimitar. 

Let us, then, as we assemble, on the birthday of the 
nation, as we gather upon the green turf once wet with 
precious blood, let us devote ourselves to the sacred 

* Bunker's Hill. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 71 

cause of constitutional liberty. Let us abjure the in- 
terests and passions which divide the great family of 
American freemen. Let the rage of party spirit sleep 
to-day. Let us resolve, that our children shall have 
cause to bless the memory of their fathers, as we have 
cause to bless the memory of ours. 



EXERCISE L. 
OUR OBLIGATIONS. 

Let the sacred obligations which have devolved on 
this generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. 
Those are daily dropping from among us, who estab- 
lished our liberty and our government. The great trust 
now descends to new hands. Let us apply ourselves to 
tbat which is presented to us as our appropriate object. 

We can win no laurels in a war of independence. 
Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. 
Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and 
Alfred, and other founders of states. Our fathers have 
filled them. But there remains to us a great duty of de- 
fence and preservation ; and there is open to us, also, a 
noble pursuit, to which the spirit of the times strongly 
invites us. 

Our proper business is improvement. Let our age be 
the age of improvement. In a day of peace, let us ad- 
vance the arts of peace and the works of peace. Let us 
develop the resources of our land, call forth its powers, 
build up its institutions, promote all its great interests, 
and see whether we also, in our day and generation, 
may not perform something worthy to be remembered. 
Let us cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony. In 
pursuing the great objects which our condition points 
out to us, let us act under a settled conviction, and an 
habitual feeling, that these twenty-four states are one 
country. 

Let our conceptions be enlarged to the circles of our 
duties. Let us extend our ideas over the whole of the 
vast field in which we are called to act. Let our object 
be, our country, our whole country, and nothing but our 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



country. And by the blessing of God, may that coun- 
try itself become a vast and splendid monument, not of 
oppression and terror, but of wisdom, of peace, and of 
liberty, upon which the world may gaze with admira- 
tion, forever ' 



EXERCISE LI. 
THE EDUCATION OF THE HEART. 

While the great powers of the mind — observation, 
comparison and reflection — are, and of right should be, 
the objects of school discipline, the great powers of the 
heart, springing from the sentiment of love, should not 
be neglected. That they are important, and important 
in the very first degree, cannot be doubted. They are 
the great basis of all true thought and action. "Keep 
thy heart with all diligence," says Solomon, " for out of 
it are the issues of life." The truly great men of the 
earth have been those whose mental abilities were 
strongly backed by great moral qualities; that is, by 
unselfish, sincere, sympathetic, forbearing hearts. All 
mental greatness, unless thus based, is like the house 
which was built upon the sand, which the wind, and 
rain, and flood of worldly misfortune have uniformly 
washed unto its fall. I say uniformly, for however a 
man may apparently succeed by superior cunning and 
selfish tact, he will, in reality, be miserable, just in pro- 
portion as his heart is selfish and depraved. His misery 
will be none the less real because it is not apparent. It 
is in this view that the race of life is not always to the 
swift, nor its battle to the strong. Every opposition in 
this world goes down, in the long run, before the better 
feelings of the heart. It is the carefully educated heart 
which beats the carefully educated head. Both equally 
combined, however, form the perfect model of man. 

It is this deep sentiment of the heart, love, which is 
at the bottom of all great reforms, — the originating 
cause, — and is, in fact, the great basis of popular opinion. 
It is the true foundation of all good society, all real free- 
dom. Woman, — educated, refined, Christian woman, — 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 73 

is its guardian, I might say its personification, in society, 
and by her silent but deep example is ever giving a 
great impulse to its holy extension. When speaking of 
reforms, however, I do not mean by them all changes 
which may agitate the great surface of society — which 
come as the tornado of popular passion or prejudice, to 
avenge and destroy, to stamp conviction on every mind 
by force and fear. True reforms are as silent as they 
are deep. The great laws of the moral, as the physical 
world, move in sublime silence. Beneath the fury of the 
sea, when lashed by the tempest, the great under-current 
of the ocean flows on quietly and unheeded. While 
the earthquake is shaking a world to its centre, amid 
desolation and dismay, the noiseless, beautiful, irresist- 
ible principle of gravitation retains the rocking sphere in 
its orbit, and remains immutable and eternal amid pass- 
ing violence and change. Thus, in society, there is a 
principle which is deeper than all outward agitation, a 
true feeling deeper than all outward passion, and that 
principle, that feeling, are moral ones, of and belonging 
to the heart. 

Of what boundless extent, depth, and value, then, is 
the human heart, as a subject of cultivation ! Who has 
ever estimated, who can ever estimate, its better capaci- 
ties, sympathies, generosities ? Of what good cultivation 
is it not capable in its every relation of life, and of what 
bad, alas ? From the heart have originated the most 
stirring appeals of patriotism, the most enthusiastic ef- 
forts for human freedom and happiness, the most self- 
sacrificing labors in every good cause. The greatest 
eiforts of the mind have been warmed by it into life, 
spurred on by its better energies, and have finally re- 
ceived from that source, also, their most grateful rewards. 
If the effort of the mind becomes immortally bright, it 
is because the glowing heat of the heart is there. It is 
the heart which finally rebukes ambition, defeats cun- 
ning, disarms selfishness. By it, in the end, all causes 
are tried, all wrongs condemned, all grievances redressed. 
The lessons of history, the records of our own experience, 
teach us that we are to loo'k to our hearts for the re- 
wards or punishments of life. Shakspeare has recorded 



74 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

a touching case of this experience, which, though partly 
imaginary, yet speaks the language of reality. The 
ruined cardinal says : — 

" Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in my age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies." 

It was the heart of the courtier which so affectingly 
reminded him of the causes of his ruin — they were the 
true sympathies of his nature, which so piteously re- 
buked the vain ambition of his life. 



EXERCISE LII. 
THE COUNTRY OF WASHINGTON. 

Gentlemen, the spirit of human liberty and of free gov- 
ernment, nurtured and grown into strength and beauty 
in America, has stretched its course into the midst of the 
nations. Like an emanation from heaven, it has gone 
forth, and it will not return void. It must change, it is 
fast changing, the face of the earth. Our great, our high 
duty, is to show, in our own examples, that this spirit is 
a spirit of health as well as a spirit of power ; that its 
benignity is as great as its strength ; that its efficiency 
to secure individual rights, social relations, and moral 
order, is equal to the irresistible force with which it 
prostrates principalities and powers. The world, at this 
moment, is regarding us with a willing, but something 
of a fearful admiration. Its deep and awful anxiety is to 
learn, whether free states may be stable as well as free ; 
whether popular power may be trusted as well as feared ; 
in short, whether wise, regular, and virtuous self-gov- 
ernment is a vision for the contemplation of theorists, or 
a truth, established, illustrated, and brought into practice, 
in the country of Washington. 

Gentlemen, for the earth which we inhabit, and the 
whole circle of the sun, for all the unborn races of man- 
kind, we seem to hold in our hands, for their weal or 
woe, the fate of this experiment. If we fail, who shall 
venture the repetition 1 If our example shall prove to 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 75 

be one, not of encouragement, but of terror — not fit to 
be imitated, but fit only to be shunned — where else shall 
the world look for free models ? If this great western 
sun be struck out of the firmament, at what other foun- 
tain shall the lamp of liberty hereafter be lighted? What 
other orb shall emit a ray to glimmer, even, on the dark- 
ness of the world ? 

Gentlemen, there is no danger of our overrating, or 
overstating, the important part which we are now acting 
in human affairs. It should not flatter our personal self- 
respect, but it should re-animate our patriotic virtues, 
and inspire us with a deeper and more solemn sense, 
both of our privileges and of our duties. We cannot 
wish better for our country, nor for the world, than that 
the same spirit which influenced Washington may influ- 
ence all who succeed him ; and that the same blessing 
from above, which attended his efforts, may also attend 
theirs. 



EXERCISE LIII. 
INDIVIDUAL ACTION. 

The great lesson which I would teach you is, — that 
it depends mainly on each individual, what part he will 
bear in the accomplishment of this great work. It is to 
be done by somebody. In a quiet order of things, the 
stock of useful knowledge is not only preserved but aug- 
mented ; and each generation improves on that which 
went before. It is true there have been periods, in the 
history 'of the world, when tyranny at home, or invasion 
from abroad, has so blighted and blasted the condition 
of society, that knowledge has perished with one gene- 
ration, faster than it could be learned by another ; and 
whole nations have sunk from a condition of improve- 
ment to one of ignorance and barbarity, sometimes in a 
very few years. But no such dreadful catastrophe is 
now to be feared. Those who come after us will not 
only equal but surpass their predecessors. The existing 
arts will be improved, science will be carried to new 
heights, and the great heritage of useful knowledge will 
go down unimpaired and augmented. 



76 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But it is all to be shared out anew ; and it is for each 
man to say, what part he will gain in the glorious patri- 
mony. 

When the rich man is called from the possession of 
his treasures, he divides them as he will among his chil- 
dren and heirs. But Providence, the stern agrarian, deals 
not so with the living treasures of the mind. There are 
children just growing up in the bosom of obscurity, in 
town and in country, who have inherited nothing but 
poverty and health, who will, in a few years, be striving 
in stern contention with the great intellects of the land. 
Our system of free schools has opened a straight way 
from the threshold of every abode, however humble, in 
the village or in the city, to the high places of usefulness, 
influence, and honor. And it is left for each, by the 
cultivation of every talent ; by watching with an eagle's 
eye for every chance of improvement ; by bounding for- 
ward like a greyhound, at the most distant glimpse of 
honorable opportunity ; by grappling, as with hooks of 
steel, to the prize when it is won ; by redeeming time, 
defying temptation, and scorning sensual pleasure, to 
make himself useful, honored, and happy. 



EXEECISE LIV. 
THE MAN OF EXPEDIENTS. 

The man of expedients is he who, never providing for 
the little mishaps and stitch-droppings with which this 
mortal life is pestered, and too indolent or too ignorant 
to repair them in the proper way, passes his days in 
inventing a succession of devices, pretexts, substitutes, 
plans, and commutations, by the help of which he thinks 
he appears as well as other people. 

Look through the various professions and characters 
of life. You will there see men of expedients darting, 
and shifting, and glancing, like fishes in the stream. If 
a merchant, the man of expedients borrows incontinently 
at two per cent, a month ; if a sailor, he stows his hold 
with jury-masts, rather than ascertain if his ship be sea- 
worthy ; if a visitor where he dislikes, he is called out 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 77 

before the evening has half expired ; if a musician, he 
scrapes on a fiddle-string of silk ; if an actor, he takes 
his stand within three feet of the prompter ; if a poet, 
he makes fault rhyme with ought, and look with spoke ; 
if a reviewer, he fills up three quarters of his article with 
extracts from the writer whom he abuses ; if a divine, 
he leaves ample room in every sermon for an exchange 
of texts ; if a physician, he is often seen galloping at full 
speed, nobody knows where ; if a debtor, he has a mar- 
vellous acquaintance with short corners and dark alleys ; 
if a printer, he is adroit at scabbarding; if a collegian, 
he commits Euclid and Locke to memory without under- 
standing them, interlines his Greek, and writes themes 
equal to the Rambler. 

But it is in the character of a general scholar that the 
man of expedients most shines. He ranges through all 
the arts and sciences — in cyclopaedias. He acquires a 
most thorough knowledge -of classical literature — from 
translations. He is very extensively read — in title-pages. 
He obtains an exact acquaintance with authors — from 
reviews. He follows all literature up to its sources — in 
tables of contents. His researches are indefatigable — 
into indexes. He quotes memoriter with astonishing 
facility — the dictionary of quotations; — and his biblio- 
graphical familiarity is miraculous — with Dibdin. 

We are sorry to say, that our men of expedients are 
to be sometimes discovered in the region of morality. 
There are those who claim the praise of a good action, 
when they have acted merely from convenience, incli- 
nation, or compulsion. There are those who make a 
show of industry, when they are set in motion only by 
avarice. There are those who are quiet and peaceable, 
only because they are sluggish. There are those who 
are sagely silent, because they have not one idea ; abste- 
mious, from repletion ; patriots, because they are ambi- 
tious ; perfect, because there is no temptation. 

But let us come down a little lower into life. Who 
appears so well and so shining at a ball-room as the man 
of expedients 1 Yet his small-clothes are borrowed, and 
as for his knee-buckles — about as ill-matched as if one 
had belonged to his hat and the other to a galoche — to 



78 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

prevent their difference being detected, he stands sidewise 
towards his partner. Nevertheless, the circumstance 
makes him a more vivacious dancer, since by the rapid- 
ity of his motions he prevents a too curious examination 
from the spectators. 

Search farther into his dress. You will find that he 
very genteelly dangles one glove. There are five pins 
about him, and as many buttons gone, or buttton-holes 
broken. His pocket-book is a newspaper. His fingers 
are his comb, and the palm of his hand his clothes-brush. 
He conceals his antiquated linen by the help of a close 
vest, and adroitly claps a bur on the rent hole of his 
stocking, while walking to church. 

Follow him home. Behold his felicitous knack of 
metamorphosing all kinds of furniture into all kinds of 
furniture. A brick constitutes his right andiron, and a 
stone his left. His bellows is his hearth-brush, and a 
hat his bellows, and that, too, borrowed from a broken 
window-pane. He shaves himself without a looking- 
glass, by the sole help of imagination. He sits down 
on a table. His fingers are his snuffers. He puts his 
candlestick into a chair. That candlestick is a decan- 
ter. That decanter was borrowed. That borrowing 
was without leave. He drinks wine out of a tumbler. 
A fork is his cork-screw. His wine-glass he converts 
into a standish. 

Very ingenious is he in the Avhole business of writing 
a letter. For that purpose he makes use of three-eights 
of a sheet of paper. His knees are his writing-desk. 
His ruler is a book cover, and his pencil a spoon handle. 
He mends his pen with a pair of scissors. He dilutes his 
ink with water, till it is reduced to invisibility. He uses 
ashes for sand. He seals his letter with the shreds and 
relics of his wafer-box. His seal is a pin. 

O hearer, if you have smiled at any part of the fore- 
going representation, let it be to some purpose. There 
is no fault we are all so apt to indulge as that into 
which we are pushed by the ingenuity of indolence — 
namely, the invention of expedients. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 79 

EXERCISE LV. 



Men are the realities, women the poetry, of this world. 
Men are the trees ; women, the fruitage and flower. The 
former delight in a rude soil — they strike their roots 
downward with a perpetual effort; and heave their 
proud branches upward, in perpetual strife. Are they 
to be removed? — you must tear up the very earth with 
their roots, — rock, and ore, and impurity, — or they per- 
ish. They cannot be translated with safety. Something 
of their home, a little of their native soil, must cling to 
them forever, or they die. Not so with woman. Give 
her but air and sky enough, and she will seek no nour- 
ishment of the earth, strike no roots downward, urge no 
sceptre upward, but content herself with shedding light 
and cheerfulness on every side of her — flowers and per- 
fume on everything she touches. Would you remove her 
— you have only to unclasp a few green delicate fibres, to 
scatter a few blossoms, and shake off a few large drops — 
like the rain-drops of a summer shower — and lo ! she is 
ready to depart with you whithersoever you may go. 
She does not cling to her native soil ; she does not yearn 
for a native earth ; all that she needs anywhere is some- 
thing to grow to. 

Her vitality is untouched, her sympathies are unhurt, 
by the influences of a new sky or a strange air. It may 
be, that in her youth her blossoming was about the door- 
way of a cottage ; it may be that she is now transplanted 
to a palace — made to breathe the hot and crowded air, to 
bask in the artificial sunshine, of a city — in shadow, and 
smoke, and a most exaggerating atmosphere. But even 
there she is happy ; she carries her home with her : and 
though what she clings to may sicken at the heart, and 
perish at the roots, for lack of its native air, she will put 
forth her beauty, and scatter her perfume, as before. 

These things are easily said; but are they true? We 
are liable to be carried away by poetry, and metaphor, 
and illustration ; but what do they prove ? Why should 
it be more difficult to describe the women than the men 
of a small neighborhood, of a remote parish, or of a large 



80 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

country? Try the experiment yourself. Go to the first 
church that you see open, or to any other place where 
you may meet a multitude of women gathered together. 
Try to give a general idea of their dress, — nay, try to 
give anybody a general idea of part of it, — of the fashion 
of their bonnets. You will find the hats of the men all 
alike ; but of the bonnets, you will seldom or never see 
two alike in the whole house — I might say on the face 
of the whole earth. Such is the very nature of woman ; 
quick, apt, sensible, and precipitate; with an eye for color 
that men have not, with an ear for music that men have 
not, and with a taste for shape that shows itself in every- 
thing she wears, and in everything she builds up. A 
woman studies change and variety; it is reproach to 
her to dress alike — I do not say to be alike — for twenty- 
four hours at a time. She would blush to be caught 
twice a year at a ball in the same, or in a similar, dress. 
And when it may not be in her power to put on a new 
robe every day, it is the study of a large part of her life 
to appear to do so ; to multiply and vary, by all sorts of 
contrivances, the few that she may have; — now by al- 
tering the shape, now by giving it a new dye, now by 
changing the ribbons, or a flounce, or a furbelow, and 
now it may be by converting slips into frocks, or frocks 
into slips, or both into spencers or riding-habits ; all of 
which a woman may do from her youth up, yet more 
from love of change than from her secret wish to appear 
better off than she is. And so with not a few of our men. 
The more youthful they are, the more sensitive they are, 
the more like women they are, the more changeable and 
capricious they are. But why should I complain of this ? 
I do not ; I only mention the fact, to show how difficult 
it is to give another a general idea of the character of a 
body of women. Before the hue is copied, it has altered. 
Before the outline is finished, it is no longer the same. 
You are in pursuit of the rainbow ; you are describing 
a changeable landscape under the drifting clouds of a 
changeable sky; you are after a bird of paradise, a 
feather, a butterfly, 

And every touch, that woos its stay, 
Brushes its brightest hues away. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 81 

But is this to complain I — if I say that flowers are not 
trees, that fruitage is not rock, that women are not men ; 
what say I more than everybody, women as well as men, 
should delight to acknowledge? Are we to be imprisoned 
forever and aye with realities ? Are we to live under a 
marble firmament, because, forsooth, a marble firmament 
may have more stability 1 Are we, who live in the very 
midst of change and fluctuation, who are never the same 
more than two minutes together, who see all the ele- 
ments circulating forever and ever within and around us, 
through all the vicissitudes of shadow and light, and 
youth and age; are we to speak irreverently of her, 
who, by the greater fineness and greater purity of her 
corporeal texture, is made more sensible than we to the 
influences of sky, and air, and sea, and earth ? As well 
might we deride the perfume of the flower, and the hue 
of the wild rose, or the songs of birds, or the flavor of 
a peach, for not being as fixed and immutable as the 
very earth we tread on. Are we to speak slightingly of 
that, which, with all its changes, and through all its 
changes, is still woman; the witchery and power, the 
pulse and the life-blood, of our being 1 Let us remember 
that the charm of the very sky is its changeableness ; of 
the very earth, is its being never the same for a long 
while together ; of the very sea and air, that they change 
at every breath you draw, and with every word you 
speak. Let us remember that the character of her who 
is appointed to be our companion forever, here and here- 
after, — 

Like sunshine in the rill, 

Though turned astray, is sunshine still. 

EXERCISE LVI. 
SELF-CONCEIT. 

[Spoken by a very Small Boy.] 

When boys are exhibiting in public, the politeness or 
curiosity of the hearers frequently induces them to in- 
quire the names of the performers. To save the trouble 
of answers, so far as relates to myself, my name is 



82 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Charles Chatterbox. I was bom in this town ; and have 
grown to my present enormous stature, without any 
artificial help. It is true, I eat, drink, and sleep, and 
take as much care of my noble self as any young man 
about ; but I am a monstrous great student. There is 
no telling the half of what I have read. 

Why, what do you think of the Arabian Tales'? 
Truth! every word truth! There's the story of the 
lamp, and of Rook's eggs as big as a meeting-house. 
And there is the history of Sinbad the Sailor. I have read 
every word of them. And I have read Tom Thumb's 
Folio through, Winter Evening Tales, and Seven Cham- 
pions, and Parismus, and Parismenus, and Valentine 
and Orson, and Mother Bunch, and Seven Wise Masters 
and a curious book, entitled, " Think well on't." 

Then there is another wonderful book, containing fifty 
reasons why an old bachelor was not married. The first 
was, that nobody would have him ; and the second was, 
he declared to everybody, that he would not marry; and 
so it went on stronger and stronger. Then, at the close 
of the book, it gives an account of his marvellous death 
and burial. Arid, in the appendix, it tells about his being 
ground over, and coming out as young, and as fresh, 
and as fair as ever. Then, every few pages, is a picture 
of him to the life. 

I have also read Robinson Crusoe, and Reynard the 
Fox, and Moll Flanders ; and I have read twelve delight- 
ful novels, and Irish Rogues, and Life of Saint Patrick, 
and Philip Quarle, and Conjuror Crop, and iEsop's 
Fables, and Laugh and be Fat, and Toby Lumpkin's 
Elegy on the Birth of a Child, and a Comedy on the 
Death of his Brother, and an Acrostic, occasioned by a 
mortal sickness of his dear wife, of which she recovered. 
This famous author wrote a treatise on the Rise and 
Progress of Vegetation ; and a whole Body of Divinity 
he comprised in four lines. 

I have read all the works of Pero Gilpin, whose 
memory was so extraordinary, that he never forgot the 
hours of eating and sleeping. This Pero was a rare lad. 
Why, he could stand on his head, as if it were a real 
pedestal ; his feet he used for drumsticks. He was 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 83 

trumpeter to the foot guards in Queen Betty's time; and, 
if he had not blown his breath away, might have lived 
to this day. 

Then, I have read the history of a man who married 
for money, and of a woman that would wear her hus- 
band's small-clothes in spite of him; and I have read 
four books of riddles and rebuses; and all that is not half 
a quarter. 

Now, what signifies reading so much, if one can't tell 
of it ? In thinking over these things, I am sometimes so 
lost in company, that I don't hear anything that is said, 
till some one pops out that witty saying, " A penny for 
your thoughts/' Then I say, to be sure, I was thinking 
of a book I had been reading. Once, in this mood, I 
came very near swallowing my cup and saucer ; and, 
another time, was upon the very point of taking down 
a punch-bowl, that held a gallon. Now, if I could 
fairly have gotten them down, they would not have hurt 
me a jot ; for my mind is capacious enough for a china- 
shop. There is no choking a man of my reading. Why, 
if my mind can contain Genii and Giants, sixty feet 
high, and enchanted castles, why not a punch-bowl, 
and a whole tea-board 1 

It was always conjectured that I should be a mon- 
strous great man ; and I believe, as much as I do the 
Mexican war, that I shall be a perfect Brobdignag, in 
time. 

Well now, do you see, when I have read a book, I go 
right off into the company of the ladies ; for they are the 
judges whether a man knows anything or not. Then 
I introduce a subject which will show my parts to the 
best advantage ; and I always mind to say a smart 
thing just before I quit. 

You must know, moreover, that I have learned a 
great deal of wit. I was the first man who invented all 
that people say about tongues, and sounds, and maybe's. 
I invented the wit of kissing a candle-stick when a lady 
holds it, and also the plays of criminal and cross-ques- 
tion ; and, above all, I invented the wit of paying toll at 
bridges. In short, ladies and gentlemen, take me all in 
all, I am a downrieht curious fellow. 



84 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LVII. 
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 

Just one mile two furlongs and seven rods from my 
grandfather's house, on a sightly hill, called Mount 
Pleasant, stood the abode of Jonathan Oldbug, my father, 
in whose spacious but decaying mansion I spent part of 
my time ; for I would not have the reader imagine that 
my parents were always so negligent as to leave me 
perpetually to write rebuses with my Uncle Gideon, or 
to eat turn-overs from the hand of my Aunt Hannah. 

My father was a tall, stately man, with one good 
coat, which he kept to wear to meeting ; one decent pair 
of shoes, which lasted, in my memory, seven years ; one 
cotton shirt, with a linen collar to it, — and he was 
sometimes compelled to lie in bed, in order that it might 
be washed. He dwelt in a large house, whose exterior, 
though not splendid, was much preferable to some of 
the rooms within ; it was surrounded with a white 
fence, with some of the parts broken down, a front gate 
swung upon one hinge, several of the window-panes 
were broken, on two of the front windows hung two 
shattered blinds, which had once been green, and before 
the house, as you entered the garden, grew two spacious 
lime trees, forming a grateful shade. As you entered 
the house, you came to a large, massy, oak door, big 
enough to be the gate of a castle, with an iron knocker 
on it, shaped for a lion, but looking more like a dog; 
and having entered the building, you saw a front 'entry, 
the paper torn and colored by the rain; on your left 
hand was one room covered with a carpet, containing 
an eight-day clock, reaching from the floor to the ceil- 
ing, and telling the age of the moon ; the other furniture 
passable ; but the rest of the rooms in a condition which 
I blush to name. There, in this stately mansion, dwelt 
my venerable sire, who might justly be denominated a 
poor gentleman ; that is, he was a gentleman in his own 
estimation, and poor in the esteem of everybody else. 

My father was a man of expedients, and had spent his 
whole life, and exhausted all his ingenuity, in that adroit 
presentation of pretences, which, in common speech, is 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



85 



called keeping up appearances. In this art he was really- 
skilful ; and I often suspected then, and have really con- 
cluded since, if he had turned half the talent to procur- 
ing an honest livelihood, which he used to slobber over 
his ill-dissembled poverty, it would have been better for 
his soul and body both. He was a man that never told 
a lie, unless it was to keep up appearances. 

I hope none who hear me have been reduced to the 
miserable necessity of tying up their pantaloons with 
pack-thread, instead of lawful suspenders ; of using a 
remnant of a pillow-case for a pocket-handkerchief ; of 
sticking a bur on their rent stocking to cover up a hole; 
and after slitting their worn pantaloons on the knee, 
when they had got half way to meeting on the Sabbath, 
of being obliged to tie a pretended pocket-handkerchief 
over a pretended wound, seeming to be lame, and per- 
haps before they had walked ten rods, forgetting in 
which leg the lameness was seated. No, these are the 
incommunicable sorrows of me, — of me, the sad hero of a 
sad family — the prince and heir-apparent to the ragged 
generation. 

To me, and to me alone, was reserved the awful 
destiny of being invited to a party, where were to as- 
semble the first beauties of a country village — not dar- 
ing to go until evening, lest the light of heaven should 
expose a thread-bare coat — having no clean shirt — not 
even a dickey which had not been worn ten times — sup- 
plying its place with a piece of writing paper — afraid to 
turn my head, lest the paper should rattle or be dis- 
placed — and then, just as a poor wretch was exulting 
in the hope that the stratagems of poverty were to pass 
undetected, to have a lady, perhaps the youngest and 
most beautiful in the whole party, come provokingly 
near, and beg to examine your collar, because she ad- 
mires the pattern. Often has it been my lot to return 
from the company, where all hearts seemed to bound 
with gladness, to water my couch with tears, amid sor- 
rows which I could tell to none, and with which none 
would sympathize. I thought it poverty. But I was 
mistaken. It was something else which begins with a P. 
8 



86 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LVIII. 
FOUNDATION OF NATIONAL CHARACTER. 

How is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and 
animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its 
own historic recollections ? Are we to be eternally ring- 
ing the changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and 
going back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin 
of the exemplars of patriotic virtue? I thank God that 
we can find them nearer home, in our own country, on 
our own soil ; — that strains of the noblest sentiment that 
ever swelled in the breast of man are breathing to us 
out of every page of our country's history, in the native 
eloquence of our mother tongue; — that the colonial and 
provincial councils of America exhibit to us models of 
the spirit and character which gave Greece and Rome 
their name and their praise among tbe nations. Here 
we ought to go for our instruction ; — the lesson is plain, 
it is clear, it is applicable. When we go to ancient his- 
tory, we are bewildered with the difference of manners 
and institutions. We are willing to pay our tribute of 
applause to the memory of Leonidas, who fell nobly for 
his country in the face of his foe. But when we trace 
him to his home, we are confounded at the reflection 
that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacrificed 
himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear his 
own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, — the 
very object for which all that is kind and good in man 
rises up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and 
carry it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygetus. We 
feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at 
Marathon by the ten thousand champions of invaded 
Greece ; but we cannot forget that the tenth part of the 
number were slaves, unchained from the workshop and 
door-post of their masters, to go and fight the battles of 
freedom. I do not mean that these examples are to de- 
stroy the interest with which we read the history of an- 
cient times; they possibly increase that interest by the 
very contrast they exhibit. But they do warn us, if we 
need the warning, to seek our great practical lessons of 
patriotism at home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. Oi 

which our own country is the theatre : out of the char- 
acters of our own fathers. Them we know, — the high- 
souled, natural, unaffected, the citizen heroes. We 
know what happy firesides they left for the cheerless 
camp. We know with what pacific habits they dared 
the perils of the field. There is no mystery, no romance, 
no madness, under the name of chivalry, about them. 
It is all resolute, manly resistance, for conscience and 
liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, 
but of all the force of long-rooted habits and native love 
of order and peace. 



EXERCISE LLX. 
THE RULING PASSION. 

Without one word from the historian, and only by 
studying a people's relics, and investigating the figura- 
tive expressions in their literature and. law, one might 
see reflected, as from a mirror, the moral scale on which 
they arranged their ideas of good and great. Though 
history should not record a single line in testimony of 
the fact, yet who, a thousand years hence, could fail to 
read, in their symbols, in their forms of speech, and in 
the technical terms of their law, the money-getting, 
money-worshipping tendencies of all commercial nations, 
during the last and the present centuries'? The word 
"sovereign," we know, means a potentate invested with 
lawful dignity and authority; and it implies subjects 
who are bound to honor and obey. Hence, in Great 
Britain, a gold coin, worth twenty shillings, is called a 
"sovereign;" and happy is the political sovereign who 
enjoys such plenitude of power and majesty, and has so 
many loyal and devoted subjects, as this vicegerent of 
royalty. An ancient English coin was called an angel. 
Its value was only ten shillings, and yet it was named 
after a messenger from heaven. In the Scriptures, and 
in political law, a crown is the emblem and personifica- 
tion of might and majesty, of glory and blessedness. 
The synonyme of all these is a piece of silver worth six 
shillings and seven pence. As the king has his repre- 



8S THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

sentative in a sovereign, so a duke has his in a ducat, — 
the inferior value of the latter corresponding with the 
inferior dignity of its archetype. As Napoleon was con- 
sidered the mightiest ruler that France ever knew, so, for 
many years, her highest coin was called a Napoleon ; 
though now, in the French mint, they strike double-Na- 
poleons. God grant that the world may never see a 
double-Napoleon of flesh and blood ! Our forefathers 
subjected themselves to every worldly privation for the 
sake of liberty, — and when 'they had heroically en- 
dured toil and sacrifice for eight long years, and at last 
achieved the blessing of independence, they showed their 
veneration for the Genius of Liberty by placing its image 
and superscription — upon a cent ! 

So, too, in our times, epithets the most distinctively 
sacred are tainted with cupidity. Mammon is not satis- 
fied with the heart- worship of his devotees ; he has stolen 
the very language of the Bible and the Liturgy ; and the 
cardinal words of the sanctuary have become the busi- 
ness phraseology of bankers, exchange-brokers, and law- 
yers. The word "good," as applied to character, origi- 
nally meant benevolent, virtuous, devout, pious; — now, 
in the universal dialect of traffic and credit, a man is 
technically called good who pays his notes at maturity; 
and thus, this almost divine epithet is transferred from 
those who laid up their treasures in heaven, to such as 
lay up their treasures on earth. The three days' res- 
pite which the law allows for the payment of a promis- 
sory note, or bill of exchange, after the stipulated period 
has expired, is called "grace," in irreverent imitation of 
the sinner's chance for pardon. On the performance of 
a broken covenant, by which a mortgaged estate is saved 
from forfeiture, it is said, in the technical language of 
the law, to be saved by " redemption." The document 
by which a deceased man's estate is bequeathed to his 
survivors is called a testament; and were the glad 
tidings of the New Testament looked for as anxiously as 
are the contents of a rich man's last will and testament, 
there would be no further occasion for the Bible Societies. 
Indeed, on opening some of our law-books, and casting 
the eye along the running-titles at the top of the pages, 



THE AMERICAN" SPEAKER. 89 

or on the marginal notes, and observing the frequent re- 
currence of such words as " covenant-broken," " grace," 
" redemption," " testament," and so forth, one might 
very naturally fall into the mistake of supposing the book 
to be a work on theology, instead of the law of real estate 
or bank stock. 



EXERCISE LX. 
WHY DO NOT OUR COMMON SCHOOLS ACCOMPLISH MORE? 

The great, the paramount cause, why our common 
schools do not, in many instances, accomplish more, is 
to be found in the want of interest in them ; the almost 
universal indifference, the deathlike lethargy, which has 
fallen upon the great mass of the community. Legisla- 
tors are too ardently engaged in the great work of de- 
veloping the natural resources of the state, to devote 
much thought to the consideration of ways and means 
for tbe development of its mental and moral resources. 
Capitalists, concentrating their energies upon the con- 
struction of railroads and manufactories, have turned 
aside from the humble, and, of old, well-trodden high- 
way of knowledge, and heed but little the moral and in- 
tellectual machinery which is in operation all around 
them. Philosophers, intent upon the discovery of new 
and more brilliant lights in the natural, intellectual, and 
moral systems, have no eye or thought for the lesser 
lights which glimmer in the district schoolhouse. The 
aged, whose children have passed beyond the period of 
childhood and youth, whose interest in the things of 
earth is becoming weaker and weaker day by day, — ■ 
the young, buoyant with life and energy, to whom the 
future is a cloudless prospect, — see, in the education of 
the rising generation, or its neglect, little or nothing to 
excite their hopes or fears. The rich, compelled to seek 
for their children, in the private school or academy, that 
which they in vain sought for in the public school, feel 
but little sympathy for a system which they are com- 
pelled to support, but which has totally failed to meet 
their wants. The poor, even, strange as it may appear, 
8* 



90 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

fail to appreciate the privilege and opportunity afforded 
them, of bestowing upon their children a virtuous and 
manly education, and yield grudgingly even the time 
which is necessarily consumed in the effort to acquire it. 
Parents, who, at home, carefully watch, lest an impure 
word or act should defile the innocency of their children, 
— lest the breath of heaven should visit them too roughly, 
— seldom, if ever, visit the schoolroom, to learn how 
their morals and their health are cared for there ; — while 
children, wearied of the task, in which no one, save 
their teacher, manifests the slightest interest, look for- 
ward to the period of their liberation from the thraldom 
of school, as the brightest day in life's calendar. Justice 
to that portion of the community who regard the cause 
of popular education in its true light, as the cause of 
God and humanity, and who gladly avail themselves of 
every fitting opportunity to promote its interest, requires 
me to add, that this fatal indifference, wide-spread and 
pernicious in its influences as it is, is not universal : — but 
the labors of the few can avail but little, so long as the 
public mind lies torpid under the influence of this chil- 
ling apathy. 



EXERCISE LXI. 
THE MAY-FLOWER. 

Methtnks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous 
vessel, the May-flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with 
the prospects of a future state, and bound across the un- 
known sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand mis- 
givings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise 
and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter sur- 
prises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight 
of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily sup- 
plied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in 
their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a cir- 
cuitous route ; and now driven in fury before the raging 
tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 

The awful voice of the storm howls through the rig- 
ging: the laboring masts seem straining from their base; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 91 

the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, 
as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean 
breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the float- 
ing deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, 
against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from 
these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, 
and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the 
ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the 
voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending 
on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer 
on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without 
shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any 
principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of 
this handful of adventurers'? Tell me, man of military 
science, in how many months were they all swept off by 
the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early 
limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how long 
did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions 
and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant 
coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled 
projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adven- 
tures, of other times, and find the parallel of this. 

Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless 
heads of women and children ? was it hard labor and 
spare meals ? was it disease ? was it the tomahawk 1 
was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined en- 
terprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, 
at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea; — 
was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this for- 
saken company to their melancholy fate 1 And is it 
possible that neither of these causes, that not all com- 
bined, were able to blast this bud of hope ! Is it possi- 
ble, that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, 
not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone 
forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an 
expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, 
yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ! 



92 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXIT. 
MOTIVES TO MORAL ACTION. 

The motives to moral action press upon the American 
citizen with unusual force at the present time. Upon 
us the hopes of man are resting, in every part of the 
world. Wherever humanity toils for a scanty subsist- 
ence ; wherever the iron heel of oppression falls upon 
the people ; wherever the last hope of liberty is dead — 

From the burning plains 

Where Lybian monsters yell, 
From the most gloomy glens 
Of Greenland's sunless climes, 
To where the golden fields 
Of fertile England spread 
Their harvest to the sky — 

" the voices of the past and the future seem to blend in 
one sound of warning and entreaty, addressing itself not 
only to the general but to the individual ear, calling 
upon us, each and all, to be faithful to the trust which 
God has committed to our hands." 

Let the American citizen feel the responsibilities of 
his position, with a determination that the hopes of the 
world shall not be disappointed. Nor let him mistake 
the nature of his duties. Many men acknowledge our 
evils and our dangers, but seek in vain for the remedy. 
They are ready for any sacrifice, but earnestly inquire 
when and where it is to be made. We eagerly seize 
upon any excuse for the non-performance of duty. 
" Give me where to stand," cried, the ancient philoso- 
pher, " and I will move the world." " Find where to 
stand," shouts the modern reformer. " Stand where 
you are," is the voice of reason and religion. It is not 
upon some great and distant enterprise that our duty 
will call us. It is not in the tented field that our services 
will be needed. The battle-ground is in our own hearts; 
the enemy, in our own bosoms. And when the passions 
of men are subdued, when selfishness is purged from 
humanity, when lust ceases to burn, when anger is en- 
tirely restrained, when jealousy, hatred and revenge are 
unknown; then, and then only, is the victory won. 



PART II.- DIALOGUES. 



DIALOGUE I. 



Raymond. I cannot conceive, Oliver, what you mean, 
by calling Harrington the first scholar in school. 

Oliver. Surely he is the first scholar, Raymond. 
Who so correct in every lesson, and so ready in all the 
exercises'? 

Raymond. Ready enough, to be sure; but he is not 
always at the head of his class. I am there quite as 
often as he is. 

Oliver. Yes, Raymond ; you get there sometimes, 
when, during the recital, you take a sly peep at your 
book, or have your lesson written out on your slate, or a 
bit of paper. 

Raymond. Who says I do so? 

Oliver. Who says so? Why, don't we all see you? 
We do not like to be called tell-tales, or we should men- 
tion the matter to the teacher. It was really odd to 
hear you mistake the answer the other day, and we 
could not help laughing when the master said you 
would have done grandly, had it happened to be the 
next question. Harrington got up that day, and he is 
not very likely to lose his place, I think. 

Raymond,. That signifies nothing. It does not prove 
that Harrington is the first scholar. He is by no means 
much of a gentleman. 

Oliver. A school-boy hardly pretends to be very 
much of a gentleman ; but' Harrington is a very gentle- 
manly school-boy. Not one amongst us is so truly kind 
and polite. He thinks of us all before he thinks of him- 
self, and gives up everything he likes best, to please and 
oblige us. There is not a boy in school, unless it may 
be you, Raymond, but what loves Harrington. 



94 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Raymond. Neither does that prove that he is a gen- 
tleman, or gentlemanly. Look at his clothes. — do look 
at his clothes ! They were never made hy a tailor ; they 
don't set as my clothes set. 

Oliver. That 's a good one ! As if the set of the 
clothes made the gentleman. 

Raymond. I did not mean the set alone ; hut Har- 
rington's clothes are coarse, and sometimes even patched. 
Now look at my clothes. I wear the finest cloth in 
school : — and I carry a watch, too. 

Oliver. And so you are the most of a gentleman, and 
the first scholar 1 Hey, Raymond ? 

Raymond. I said no such thing : — but I heartily 
despise a patch, and everybody who wears a patch ; and 
I always will despise them. 

Oliver. Well done ! Then I suppose you heartily 
despise me, and all the rest of the boys. But I don't 
care. Nobody can play much without having a patch 
now and then. Shall we go to play now, Raymond? 

Raymond. No, I am not going to play. I have no 
time to play ; but your dear friend Harrington has time 
for everything. 

Oliver. That is true, though you speak so jeeringly ; 
and it is because he takes care of his minutes. The 
master told us the other day, that if we took care of our 
minutes, we should have time for everything. He said 
— "Drops make the ocean, minutes make the years," 
and I shall try to remember it. 

Raymond. You can remember what you like. J 
don't want to remember anything that the master says, 
or that you say, — or your friend Harrington, either. 

Oliver. Come, Raymond, I am sure I did not mean 
to make you fretful. Do let us go to the play-ground. 

Raymond. No, indeed ! not I. You don't catch me 
playing, with boys who wear patched clothes. 

Oliver. Well, if you will not go I must leave you. I 
trust it will not be long before you will be convinced 
that fine clothes do not make a gentleman, and that real 
goodness and worth may exist under patched clothes, as 
well as under the most elegant broadcloth. Remember 
that worth makes the man, — the want of it the fellow. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 95 

DIALOGUE II. 
DEPORTMENT. 

Charles. Good-morning, friend Amos ; I am glad to 
see you, for I have been thinking about something, and 
should like to know how you feel about the same. 

Amos. Well, friend Charles, you and I agree on most 
subjects, and perhaps we shall on that which now 
troubles you. What have you been thinking about 1 

Charles. Why, I have been thinking that our teach- 
ers say too much respecting our conduct out of school. 
If we behave well while in school, — study our lessons 
diligently, recite accurately, and obey the rules of the 
school, — I think that is enough, and we ought to be left 
to do as we please when we are out of school. 

Amos. I do not know that I shall agree with you on 
that point ; our teachers wish us to behave well every- 
where, and at all times, and they advise us to do so 
because they think it will make us better and happier. 
What are some of the things about which you think 
they say too much 1 

Charles. Why, when we are in the streets, they wish 
us to be orderly and civil ; to use no language that we 
should be unwilling to have our mothers hear ; to an- 
swer every one respectfully and politely, and not to run 
after carriages. 

Amos. You consider these as hardships, do you, 
Charles ? If you do I cannot agree with you, for I think 
they are all designed for our good, and I hope you will 
change your views. I do not think that our teachers 
wish anything of us that will injure us. Now, tell me 
honestly. Charles, if you think they have been unreason- 
able in their requests ? If Ave do just as they wish, will 
it not promote our welfare? 

Charles. Well, really, Amos, I cannot say that they 
wish us any harm, or that they make unreasonable re- 
quests; but I can say that I like to do as I please when I 
am out of school. 

Amos. Yes, Charles, we often wish to do as we 
please; but ought it not to please us to do what is right? 
If so, we can please our teachers and parents at the 



96 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

same time. Ought we not to try to be good, and do 
good? 

Charles. Certainly, I agree to that ; but then I want 
to have my own way. 

Amos. Very well, you can have your own way; and 
if that way is a good way, you will be happy in it ; but 
if it is a bad one, you will be unhappy yourself, and 
make others so too. There is Tom Lawless, who has 
his own way to any extent ; he uses wicked and improp- 
er language, runs after carriages in the street, answers 
every one who speaks to him, abruptly and uncivilly, 
and no one likes him ; now, do you wish to imitate his 
example? 

Charles. No, I cannot say that I do, in all respects ; 
certainly I would not use improper language. 

Amos. I am glad to hear you say so much, Charles ; 
but do you think it right to run after carriages? is it not 
both dangerous and uncivil? And then as to answering 
people who ask us questions, is it not just as well to 
say " I don't know, sir," as to say plain, blunt " No"? 
Do you not think a little politeness is desirable? 

Charles. Well, Amos, I have never thought much 
about the subject before, and, upon the whole, I think 
you are about right. I shall try to walk in the right way; 
and if I try, I think I shall succeed. I am glad we have 
had this talk, and I thank you for what you have said. 
I think the more exactly we regard the wants and re- 
quirements of our teachers, the better and happier we 
shall be : then our teachers and friends will be pleased, 
and you and I will be better friends than ever. 



DIALOGUE III. 
ABOUT ORDER. 

Mary. I wish you would lend me your thimble, Sa- 
rah, for I can never find mine when I want it. 

Sarah. And why can you not find it, Mary ? 

Mary. I am sure I cannot tell ; but if you do not 
choose to lend me yours, I can borrow of somebody else. 

Sarah. 1 am willing to lend it to you ; but I should 



THE AMERICAN .SPEAKER. 



97 



like to have you tell me why yon always come to me to 
borrow, when you have lost anything. 

Mary. Because you never lose your things, and al- 
ways know Avhere to find them. 

Sarah. And how, think you, do I always know 
where to find my things? 

Mary. How can I tell ? If I knew, I might some- 
times contrive to find my own. 

Sarah. I will tell you the secret, if you will hear it. 
I have a set place for everything; and after I have done 
using a thing, I always put it in its proper place, and 
never leave it to be thrown about and lost. 

Mary. I never can find time to put my things away ; 
and who wants, as soon as she has used a thing, to have 
to run and put it away, as if one's life depended upon 
it? 

Sarah. Your life does not depend upon it, Mary, but 
your convenience does; and, let me ask, how much more 
time will it take to put a thing in its proper place, than 
to hunt after it when lost, or borrow of your friends? 

Mary. Well, I will never borrow of you again, you 
may depend upon it. 

Sarah. Why, you are not affronted, I hope ? 

Mary. No, but I am ashamed, and am determined 
before night to have a place for everything, and to keep 
everything in its place. 



DIALOGUE IV. 
ABOUT DANCING. 

Henry. Tom, when are you going to begin dancing ? 
You will be so old, in a short time, that you will be 
ashamed to be seen taking your five steps. 

Thomas. I don't know, Henry, as I shall begin at 
all. Father says he don't care a fig whether I learn to 
jump any better than I do now ; and as I am to be a 
tradesman, he is determined, at present, to keep me at 
the reading and writing schools. 

Henry. That must be very dull and dry for you. 
And what good will all such learning do you, so long as 



98 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

you make the awkward appearance you do at present? 
I am surprised at your father's folly. So, because you 
are to be a tradesman, you are not to learn the graces ! 
I expect to learn a trade, too. But my papa says I shall 
first learn the dancing trade ; and then, if I never learn 
any other, I shall make my way through the world well 
enough. 

Thomas. I don't know which discovers the most 
folly, your father, or mine. Old folks certainly know 
more than young ones ; and my father is much the older 
man. 

Henry. I don't believe that doctrine. There is Jack 
Upstart, knows more than his father and mother both. 
And he is but nineteen yet, and he says the present 
generation, under five and twenty years of age, knows 
more than fifteen generations that have gone before us. 

Thomas. I don't know how that is ; but father early 
taught me this proverb — "Young folks think old folks 
are fools ; but old folks know young ones to be so." But 
to return to schools. Pray how far have you gone in 
your arithmetic? 

Henry. Arithmetic ! I have not begun that yet : 
nor shall I till I have completed dancing. That is a 
dry study ; I know I shall never like it. 

Thomas. Writing I suppose you are fond of? 

Henry. I can't say I am, Thomas. I once had a 
tolerable fondness for it, but since I began dancing, I 
have held it in utter contempt. It may be well enough 
for a person to write a legible hand; but it is no mark 
of a gentleman to write elegantly. 

Thomas. You would have a gentleman spell well, I 
suppose 1 

Henry. I would have him spell so well as to be un- 
derstood; and that is enough for any man. 

Thomas. What say you to grammar and geography ? 

Henry. Don't name them, I entreat you. There is 
nothing I so much abhor, as to hear your learned school- 
boys jabbering over their nouns, their pronouns, their 
werbs, their parables, their congregations, their imper- 
fections, and confluctions. I'll tell you what, Tom; 
I had rather be master of one hornpipe, than to under- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 99 

stand all the grammars which have been published since 
the art of printing was discovered. 

Thomas. I am sorry, friend Henry, to hear you 
speak so contemptuously of the solid sciences. I hope 
you don't mean to neglect them entirely. If you do, 
you must expect to live in poverty, and die the derision 
and scorn of all wise men. 

Henry. Never fear that, Thomas. I shall take care 
of myself, I warrant you. You are much mistaken in 
your prognostications. Why, there 's Tom Fiddlefaddle, 
who can't even write his name ; and as for reading, he 
scarcely knows B from a broom-stick ; and yet he can 
dance a minuet with any master of the art in Christen- 
dom. And the ladies all love him dearly. He is invited 
to their balls, routs, assemblies, card-parties, &c., &c., 
and he diverts them like any monkey. 

Thomas. And does he expect it will be the same 
through life? How is he to be maintained when he be- 
comes old ? and how is he to amuse himself after he is 
unable to dance, as you say he can neither read nor 
write? 

Henry. Why, in fact, I never thought of those things 
before. I confess there seems to be some weight in your 
queries. I don't know but it will be best for me to spare 
a day or two in a week from my dancing, to attend to the 
branches you are pursuing. 

Thomas. You can make but little progress in that 
way. My teacher always told me that the solid sciences 
should be secured first. He says that when his scholars 
have once entered a dancing school, their heads are so 
full of balls, assemblies, minuets, and cotillons, that he 
can never find room for anything else. 

Henry. Well, friend Thomas, I am not certain but 
you are right : at all events, I am resolved to reflect seri- 
ously upon what you have said. 



DIALOGUE V. 
ABOUT GOING TO SCHOOL. 



Caroline. Good-evening, Elizabeth; how do you do? 
Elizabeth. My health is very good, Caroline; but there 
is one thing that troubles me. 



100 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Caroline. And what is that, dear Elizabeth ? 

Elizabeth. Why, mother wants me to go to school 
all the time, and I don't like to go : I want to stay at 
home, and play with sister Ann. 

Caroline. But do you consider what a privilege it is 
to have a good school to go to, and to be allowed to go? 

Elizabeth. I never considered much about it; and if 
I had, I should not have regarded it as a privilege, I am 
sure. 

Caroline. But only think how you would feel, to 
grow up, and be an ignorant woman ! 

Elizabeth. Why, I should like to have learning well 
enough, if I could get it without studying. 

Caroline. Remember, Elizabeth, that you can obtain 
nothing worth having, without an effort ; and is not 
learning worth some effort ? 

Elizabeth. That is just what mother says ; and she 
says, too, that we have better schools than children had 
when she was young. 

Caroline. That is true ; but did she ever tell you 
how much better ? 

Elizabeth. No; she has never said, much about it. 

Caroline. Well, I cannot tell you fully, now ; but it 
is certain, that we have better schoolhouses, and better 
books, and many other things which seem better ; for I 
often hear father say how much the schools have im- 
proved since he went to school. He says everything is 
made so easy and pleasant now, that he is almost afraid 
we don't have to work hard enough to get our learning. 

Elizabeth. Really, Caroline, I believe I have not 
considered the subject as I ought. 

Caroline. Then I hope you will do so for the future, 
and when you go to school, be sure to go in season. Our 
teacher does not like to have us tardy. 

Elizabeth. I can't see any harm in being a little late, 
occasionally. ■ 

Caroline. Why, Elizabeth, how can you say so? 
Just consider a moment. If you go to school late, you 
interrupt the scholars, and they all look up to see who 
the tardy one is. And, besides, our teacher says that 
we ought to form the habit of being punctual in the per- 
formance of every duty. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 101 

Elizabeth. I begin to see that I have felt wrong, and 
acted wrong; and this very evening, I resolve not to be 
tardy again this term. 

Caroline. I am glad to hear you speak so, my dear 
Elizabeth, and I trust you will be able to keep your good 
resolution ; I hope, also, you will consider the impor- 
tance of being constant, as well as seasonable. Our 
teacher says we cannot learn much, if we are absent 
half of the time ; and we may know this is true, by no- 
ticing how poorly those in our class recite who are often 
absent. 

Elizabeth. Well, I will try not to be absent again. 
I am really obliged to you for the good hints you have 
given me this evening, and I hope they will make me a 
better and happier girl. Good-night, dear Caroline. 

Caroline. Good-night. 



DIALOGUE VI. 
KINDNESS RECOMMENDED. 

Jack. Good-morning, Solomon. 

Solomon. Good-morning Jack : I see you are going 
about with Isaac Wilson, and the people say you have 
come to live with him a while, and try to make some- 
thing of him. 

Jack. I expect to stay there till my father begins his 
haying and harvest. 

Solomon. You will find Isaac very much like the 
jockey's horse, that had but two failings. 

Jack. What were those two 7 

Solomon. One was, the horse was bad to catch. 

Jack. What was the other 1 

Solomon. When they had caught him, he was good 
for nothing. 

Jack. I hope Isaac is not so bad as the horse you tell 
of; he will make a very decent man yet, if he will only 
try, in earnest. 

Solomon. Ay, there is the difficulty, my good fel- 
low ; — who can change that bag of sand into a smart 
boy? 

9* 



102 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Jack. I should hardly think that any young lad 
would be such a dolt as not to try to make himself re- 
spectable in the world. 

Solomon. You might as well teach a fish to eat grass 
in the fields, as to make anything of that lazy fellow. 

Jack. We should be very careful, Solomon, about 
speaking evil of our neighbors. 

Solomon. Well, I know it is wrong ; but I do not 
know that we can say anything good about Isaac 
Wilson. Every one talks against him, and says the 
same that I do. He is so bad that one cannot speak too 
harshly of him. 

Jack. But I think the true way is to keep silent, if 
we cannot speak well of one ; certainly silence is better 
than slander. 

Solomon. I think there is truth in what you say, 
and I feel that I have done wrong. I am sorry for my 
thoughtlessness, and am resolved to be more careful for 
the future. 

Jack. I am truly glad to hear you say so, Solomon. 
Perhaps, the very reason Isaac is so bad as you repre- 
sent is, that every one has been against him, and treated 
him as though he was really a worthless fellow. Now, 
I intend to treat him kindly, and, if possible, induce him 
to respect himself; and if you and others will aid me, I 
hope he may yet become a happy and useful member of 
society. At any rate, let us do right, and treat him as 
we ought, and then we shall not be in fault if he persists 
in his misconduct. 

Solomon. I will certainly do all I can to aid you. 
Good-evening. 

Jack. Good-evening. 



DIALOGUE VII. 
SELF INTEREST. 

Or, WJiere there 's a Will, there 's a Way. 

Derby. Good-morning, neighbor Scrapewell. I have 
half a dozen miles to ride to-day, and should be ex- 
tremely obliged if you would lend me your gray mare. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 103 

Scrapewell. I should be happy, friend Derby, to oblige 
you ; but am under the necessity of going immediately 
to the mill with three bags of corn. My wife wants the 
meal this very morning. 

Der. Then she must want it still, for I can assure 
you the mill does not go to-day. I heard the miller tell 
Will Davis that the water was too low. 

Scrape. You don't say so? That is bad indeed ; for 
in that case I shall be obliged to gallop off to town for 
the meal. My wife would comb my head for me, if I 
should neglect it. 

Der. I can save you this journey, for I have plenty 
of meal at home, and will lend your wife as much as she 
wants. 

Scrape. Ah ! neighbor Derby, I am sure your meal 
will never suit my wife. You can't conceive how whim- 
sical she is. 

Der. If she were ten times more whimsical than she 
is, I am certain she would like it ; for you sold it to me 
yourself, and you assured me it was the best you ever 
had. 

Scrape. Yes, yes, that's true, indeed; I always have 
the best of everything. You know, neighbor Derby, that 
no one is more ready to oblige a friend than I am; but 
I must tell you, the mare this morning refused to eat 
hay ; and, truly, I am afraid she will not carry you. 

Der. Oh, never fear ! I will feed her well with oats 
on the road. 

Scrape. Oats ! neighbor ; oats are very dear. 

Der. Never mind that. When I have a good job in 
view, I never stand for trifles. 

Scrape. But it is very slippery; and I am really afraid 
she will fall and break your neck. 

Der. Give yourself no uneasiness about that. The 
mare is certainly sure-footed ; and, besides, you were just 
now talking of galloping her to town. 

Scrape. Well, then, to tell you the plain truth, though 
I wish to oblige you with all my heart, my saddle is torn 
quite in pieces, and I have just sent my bridle to be 
mended. 

Der. Luckily, I have both a bridle and a saddle hang- 
ing up at home. 



104 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Scrape. Ah ! that may be ; but I am sure your saddle 
will never fit my mare. 

Der. Why, then I'll borrow neighbor Clodpole's. 

Scrape. Clodpole's ! his will no more fit than yours 
will. 

Der. At the worst, then, I will go to my good friend 
'Squire Jones. He has half a score of them ; and I am 
sure he will lend me one that will fit her. 

Scrape. You know, friend Derby, that no one is more 
willing to oblige his neighbors than I am. I do assure 
yon, the beast should be at your service, with all my 
heart ; but she has not been curried, I believe, for three 
weeks past. Her foretop and mane want combing and 
cutting very much. If any one should see her in her 
present plight, it would ruin the sale of her. 

Der. O ! a horse is soon curried, and my son Sam 
shall despatch her at once. 

Scrape. Yes, very likely ; but I this moment recollect 
the creature has no shoes on. 

Der. Well, is there not a blacksmith hard by? 

Scrape. What! that tinker of a Dobson ? I would 
not trust such a bungler to shoe a goat. No, no ; none 
but uncle Tom Thumper is capable of shoeing my mare. 

Der. As good luck will have it, then, I shall pass right 
by his door. 

Scrape. [Calling to his son.] Timothy, Timothy. 
Here 's neighbor Derby, who wants the loan of the gray 
mare, to ride to town to-day. You know the skin was 
rubbed off her back last week a hand's breadth or more. 
[He gives Tim a wink.] However, I believe she is well 
enough by this time. You know, Tim, how ready I am 
to oblige my neighbors. And, indeed, we ought to do 
all the good we can in this world. We must certainly let 
neighbor Derby have her, if she will possibly answer his 
purpose. Yes, yes ; I see plainly, by Tim's counte- 
nance, neighbor Derby, that he's disposed to oblige you. 
I would not have refused you the mare for the worth of 
her. If I had, I should have expected you would have 
refused me in your turn. None of my neighbors can 
accuse me of being backward in doing them a kindness. 
Come, Timothy, what do you say ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 105 

Tim. What do I say, father 1 Why, I say, sir, that 
I am no less ready than you are to do a neighborly kind- 
ness. But the mare is by no means capable of perform- 
ing the journey. About a hand's breadth did you say, 
sir? Why, the skin is torn from the poor creature's 
back, of the bigness of your broad-brimmed hat. And, 
besides, I have promised her, as soon as she is able to 
travel, to Ned Saunders, to carry a load of apples to the 
market. 

Scrape. Do you hear that, neighbor? I am very 
sorry matters turn out thus. I would not have disobliged 
you for the price of two such mares. Believe me, neigh- 
bor Derby, I am really sorry, for your sake, that mat- 
ters turn out thus. 

Der. And I as much for yours, neighbor Scrapewell ; 
for, to tell you the truth, I received a letter this morning 
from Mr. Griffin, who tells me, if I will be in town this 
day, he will give me the refusal of all that lot of timber 
which he is about cutting down upon the back of cobble- 
hill ; and I intended you should have shared half of it, 
which would have been not less than fifty dollars in your 
pocket. But, as your 

Scrape. Fifty dollars, did you say? 

Der. Ay, truly did I ; but as your mare is out of or- 
der, I '11 go and see if I can get old Roan, the blacksmith's 
horse. 

Scrajje. Old Roan ! My mare is at your service, 
neighbor. Here, Tim, tell Ned Saunders he can't have 
the mare. Neighbor Derby wants her; and I won't 
refuse so good a friend anything he asks for. 

Der. But what are you to do for meal? 

Scrape. My wife can do without it this fortnight, if 
you want the mare so long. 

Der. But then your saddle is all in pieces. 

Scrape. I meant the old one. I have bought a new 
one since, and you shall have the first use of it. 

Der. And you would have me call at Thumper's, 
and get her shod? 

Scrape. No, no ; I had forgotten to tell you, that I 
let neighbor Dobson shoe her last week by way of trial ; 
and, to do him justice, I must own, he shoes extremely 
well. 



106 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Der. But if the poor creature has lost so much skin 
from off her back 

Scrape. Poh, poh ! That is just one of our Tim's 
large stories. I do assure you, it was not at first bigger 
than my thumb-nail ; and I am certain it has not grown 
any since. 

Der. At least, however, let her have something she 
will eat, since she refuses hay. 

Scrape. She did, indeed, refuse hay this morning ; 
but the only reason was that she was crammed full of 
oats. You have nothing to fear, neighbor ; the mare is 
in perfect trim ; and she will skim you over the ground 
like a bird. I wish you a good journey and a profitable 
job. 



DIALOGUE VIII. 
PHYSIOGNOMY. 

Frank. It appears strange to me that people can be 
so imposed upon. There is no difficulty in judging folks 
by their looks. I profess to know as much of a man, at 
the first view, as by half a dozen years' acquaintance. 

Henry. Pray, how is that done? I should wish to 
learn such an art. 

Frank. Did you never read Lavater on Physiogno- 
my? 

Henry. No. What do you mean by such a hard 
word? 

Frank. Physiognomy means a knowledge of men's 
hearts, thoughts, and characters, by their looks. For 
instance, if you see a man with a forehead jutting over 
his eyes like a piazza ; with a pair of eyebrows heavy, 
like the cornice of a house ; with full eyes and a Roman 
nose, — depend on it, he is a great scholar, and an hon- 
est man. 

Henry. It seems to me I should rather go below his 
nose, to discover his scholarship. 

Frank. By no means : if you look for beauty, you 
may descend to the mouth and chin ; otherwise, never 
go below the region of the brain. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 107 

Enter George. 

George. Well, I have seen a man hanged. And 
he has gone to the other world, with just such a great 
forehead, and Roman nose, as you have always been 
praising. 

Frank. Remember, George, all signs fail in dry 
weather. 

George. Now, be honest, Frank, and own that there 
is nothing in all this science of yours. The only way 
to know men is by their actions. If a man commit bur- 
glary, think you a Roman nose ought to save him from 
punishment 7 

Frank. I don't carry my notions so far as that; but 
it is certain that all the faces in the world are different ; 
and equally true that each has some marks about it, by 
which one can discover the temper and character of the 
person. 

Enter Peter. 

Peter. [ To Frank.] Sir, I have heard of your fame, 
from Dan to Beersheba ; that you can know a man by 
his face, and can tell his thoughts by his looks. Hear- 
ing this, I have visited you, without the ceremony of an 
introduction. 

Frank. Why, indeed, I profess something in that 
way. 

Peter. By that forehead, nose, and those eyes of 
yours, one might be sure of an acute, penetrating mind. 

Frank. I see that you are not ignorant of physiog- 
nomy. 

Peter. I am not ; but still I am so far from being an 
adept in the art, that unless the features are very remark- 
able, I cannot determine with certainty. But yours is 
the most striking face I ever saw. There is a certain 
firmness in the lines which lead from the outer verge to 
the centre of the apple of your eye, which denotes great 
forecast, deep thought, bright invention, and a genius for 
great purposes. 

Frank. You are a perfect master of the art. And to 
show you that I know something of it, permit me to ob- 
serve, that the form of your face denotes frankness, truth, 



108 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

and honesty. Your heart is a stranger to guile, your 
lips to deceit, and your hands to fraud. 

Peter. I must confess that you have hit upon my 
true character, though a different one from what I have 
sustained in the view of the world. 

Frank. [ To Henry and George.] Now see two strong 
examples of the truth of physiognomy. [ While he is 
saying- this, Peter takes out his pocket-booh, and makes 
off with himself .] Now, can you conceive, that, with- 
out this knowledge, I could fathom the character of a 
total stranger ? 

Henry. Pray, tell us by what marks you discovered 
that in his heart and lips were no guile, and in his hands 
no fraud 1 

Frank. Ay, leave that to me ; we are not to reveal 
our secrets. But I will show you a face and character 
which exactly suit him. [Feels for his pocket-book in 
both pockets, — looks wild and concerned.] 

George. [Sarcastically.] Ay, "In his heart is no 
guile, in his lips no deceit, and in his hands no fraud ! 
Now we see a strong example of the power of physiog- 
nomy !" 

Frank. He is a wretch ! a traitor against every good 
sign ! I'll pursue him to the ends of the earth. 

Henry. Stop a moment. His fine, honest face is far 
enough before this time. You have not yet discovered 
the worst injury he has done you. 

Frank. What 's that? I had no watch or money for 
him to steal. 

Henry. By his deceitful lips, he has robbed you of 
any just conception of yourself; he has betrayed you 
into a foolish belief that you are possessed of most ex- 
traordinary genius and talents. Whereas, separate from 
the idle whim about physiognomy, you have no more 
pretence to genius, or learning, than a common school- 
boy. Learn, henceforth, to estimate men's hands by 
their deeds, their lips by their words, and their hearts by 
their lives. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 109 

DIALOGUE IX. 
HAMLET AND HORATIO. 

Horatio. Hail to your lordship ! 

Hamlet. I am glad to see you well : (approaches.} 
Horatio, — or I do forget myself. 

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant 
ever. 

Ham. Sir, my good friend ; I '11 change that name 
with you. 
And what, make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ? 

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. 

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so ; 
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, 
To make it truster of your own report 
Against yourself: I know you are no truant. 
But what is your affair in Elsinore 1 
We '11 teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. 

Ham. I pray thee do not mock me, fellow-student : 
I think it was to see my mother's wedding. 

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon. 

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral baked meats 
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven, 
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio ! 
My father, methinks I see my father. 

Hor. Where, my lord? 

Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio. 

Hor. I saw him once ; he was goodly king. 

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all ; 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 

Hani. Saw! who? 

Hor. My lord, the king, your father. 

Ham. The king, my father? 

Hor. Season your admiration for a while, 
With an attent ear ; till I may deliver, 
Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 
This marvel to you. 

Ham. For Heaven's love, let me hear. 
10 



110 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, 
Mareellus and Bernardo, on their watch, 
In the dead waste and middle of the night, 
Been thus encountered : A figure like your father, 
Armed at all points, exactly, cap-a-pie. 
Appears before -them, and, with solemn march, 
Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walked 
By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon's length ; whilst they, distilled 
Almost to jelly with the act of fear, 
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. 

Ham. But where was this ? 

Hor. My lord, upon the platform where we watched. 

Ham. Did you not speak to it ? 

Hor. My lord, I did ; 
But answer made it none. Yet once, methought, 
It lifted up its head, and did address 
Itself to motion, like as it would speak; 
But, even then, the morning cock crew loud; 
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, 
And vanished from our sight. 

Ham. 'T is very strange! 

Hor. As I do live, my honored lord, 'tis true; 
And we did think it writ down in our duty, 
To let you know of it. 

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sir, but this troubles me. 
Hold you the watch to-night 1 

Hor. We do, my lord. 

Ham. Armed, say you 1 

Hor. Armed, my lord. 

Ham. From top to toe ? 

Hor. My lord, from head to foot. 

Ham,. Then saw you not his face ? 

Hor. O yes, my lord : he wore his beaver up. 

Ham. What, looked he frowningly 1 

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. 

Ham. Pale, or red ? 

Hor. Nay, very pale. 

Ham. And fixed his eyes upon you 7 

Hor. Most constantly. 

Ham. I would I had been there. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. Ill 

Hor. It would have much amazed you. 

Ham. Very like, very like; stayed it long? 

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a 
hundred. 

Ham. His beard was grizzled 1 — no ? — 

Hor. It was as I have seen it in his life, 
A sable silvered. 

Ham. I'll watch to-night; perchance 'twill walk 
t again. 

Hor. I warrant yon it will. 

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, 
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape, 
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you, sir, 
If you have hitherto concealed' this sight, 
Let it be tenable in your silence still ; 
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 
Give it an understanding, but no tongue ; 
I will requite your love : so, fare you well. 
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, 
I '11 visit you. 



DIALOGUE X. 
HARD TO PLEASE. 

Mrs. Bolingbroke. I wish I knew what was the 
matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the 
newspaper all to yourself, my dear ? 

Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear : I have 
finished it. 

Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me 
when you have done with it — I hate stale news. Is 
there anything in the paper ? for I cannot be at the trou- 
ble of hunting it. 

Mr. B. Yes, my dear ; there are the marriages of two 
of our friends. 

Mrs. B. Who? who? 

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her 
cousin, John Nettleby. 

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby ! Lord ! But why did you 
tell me ? 

Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear. 



112 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to 
read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleas- 
ure of the surprise by being told. Well, whose was the 
other marriage? 

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you ; I will leave 
you the pleasure of the surprise. 

Mrs. B. But you see I cannot find it. How pro- 
voking you are, my dear ! Do pray tell it me. 

Mr. B. Our friend, Mr. Granby. 

Mrs. B. Mr. Granby ! Dear ! Why did you not 
make me guess ? I should have guessed him directly. 
But why do you call him our friend ? I am sure he is 
no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to 
him, as you may remember, the very first day I saw 
him. I am sure he is no friend of mine. 

Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear ; but I hope you 
will go and see Mrs. Granby. 

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she ? 

Mr. B. Miss Cooke. 

Mrs. B. Cooke ! But there are so many Cookes : 
can't you distinguish her in some way? Has she no 
Christian name ? 

Mr. B. Emma, 1 think. Yes, Emma. 

Mrs. B. Emma Cooke ! No ; it cannot be my friend 
Emma Cooke ; for I am sure she was cut out for an old 
maid. 

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a 
good wife. 

Mrs. B. May be so, — I am sure I'll never go to see 
her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of 
her? 

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I 
only saw her two or three times before she was married. 

Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that 
she was cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could 
not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, 
and before she was married. 

Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just obser- 
vation. 

Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and 
thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear any- 
thing better than irony. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 113 

Mr. B. Irony! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest. 

Mrs. B. Yes, yes; in earnest — so I perceive; — I 
may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings 
are quick enough; I comprehend you too well. Yes — 
it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or 
to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume 
you speak from experience ; you have been disappointed 
yourself, and repent your choice. 

Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this 2 
Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was 
not thinking of you in the least. 

Mrs. B. No — you never think of me now. I can 
easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the 
least. 

Mr. B. But I said that only to prove to you that I 
could not be thinking ill of you, my dear. 

Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of 
me, than that you did not think of me at all. 

^Fr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you, 
if that will please you. 

Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me? When it comes to 
this. 1 am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the 
woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest re- 
mains of love for me, you could not make me an object 
of derision : ridicule and love are incompatible ; absolute- 
ly incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very 
best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not 
cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby ! 

Mr. B. Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be 
with my friend ; but my happiness must depend on you, 
my love; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be com- 
posed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies. 

Mrs. B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is 
really that Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her 
directly ; see her I must. 

Mr. B. I am heartily glad of it, my dear; for I am 
sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real 
pleasure. 

Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give 
him pleasure, or you either ; but to satisfy my own — 
curiosity. 

10* 



114 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XL 
CHARLES II. AND WILLIAM PENN. 

Charles. Well, friend William ! 1 have sold you a 
noble province in North America ; but still I suppose 
you have no thoughts of going thither yourself. 

Penn. Yes, I have, I assure thee, friend Charles ; 
and I am just come to bid thee farewell. 

Char. What ! venture yourself among the savages 
of North America ! Why, man, what security have 
you that you will not be in their war-kettle in two 
hours after setting foot on their shores? 

Penn. The best security in the world. 

Char. I doubt that, friend William; I have no idea 
of any security against those cannibals, but in a regi- 
ment of good soldiers, with their muskets and bayonets. 
And mind, I tell you beforehand, that, with all my good 
will for you and your family, to whom I am under obli- 
gations, I will not send a single soldier with you. 

Penn. I want none of thy soldiers, Charles : I de- 
pend on something better than thy soldiers. 

Char. Ah ! and what may that be? 

Penn. Why, I depend upon themselves — on the 
workings of their own hearts — on their notions of 
justice — on their moral sense. 

Char. A fine thing, this same moral sense, no doubt ; 
but I fear you will not find much of it among the In- 
dians of North America. 

Penn. And why not among them, as well as others? 

Char. Because, if they had possessed any, they 
would not have treated my subjects so barbarously as 
they have done. 

Penn. That is no proof to the contrary, friend 
Charles. Thy subjects were the aggressors. When 
thy subjects first went to North America, they found 
these poor people the fondest and kindest creatures in 
the world. Every day they would watch for them to 
come ashore, and hasten to meet them, and feast them 
on the best fish, and venison, and corn, which was all 
that they had. In return for this hospitality of the 
savages, as we call them, thy subjects, termed Chris- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 115 

tians, seized, on their country and rich hunting-grounds, 
for farms for themselves ! Now, is it to be wondered at, 
that these much injured people should have been driven 
to desperation by such injustice ; and that, burning with 
revenge, they should have committed some excesses? 

Char. Well, then, I hope you will not complain 
when they come to treat you in the same manner. 

Penn. I am not afraid of it. 

Char. Ah ! how will you avoid it? You mean to 
get their hunting-grounds, too, I suppose? 

Penn. Yes, but not by driving these poor people 
away from them. 

Char. No, indeed ! How, then, will you get the 
lands? 

Penn. I mean to buy their lands of them. 

Char. Buy their lands of them ! Why, man, you 
have already bought them of me. 

Penn. Yes, I know I have, and at a dear rate, too ; 
but I did it only to get thy good will, not that I thought 
thou hadst any right to their lands. 

Char. Zounds, man ! no right to their lands ! 

Penn. No, friend Charles, no right at all : what right 
hast thou to their lands? 

Char. Why, the right of discovery, to be sure ; the 
right which all Christian kings have agreed to give one 
another. 

Penn. The right of discovery ! A strange kind of 
right, indeed ! Now, suppose, friend Charles, that some 
canoe-loads of these Indians, crossing the sea, and dis- 
covering thy island of Great Britain, were to claim it as 
their own, and set it up for sale over thy head, — what 
wouldst thou think of it? 

Char. Why — why — why — I must confess, I should 
think it a piece of great impudence in them. 

Penn. Well, then, how canst thou, a Christian, and 
a Christian prince, too, do that which thou so utterly 
condemnest in these people, whom thou callest savages ? 
Yes, friend Charles ; and suppose, again, that these In- 
dians, on thy refusal to give up thy island of Great 
Britain, were to make war on thee, and, having weap- 
ons more destructive than thine, were to destroy many of 



116 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

thy subjects, and to drive the rest away, — wouldst thou 
not think it horribly cruel 1 

Char. I must say that I should, friend William : 
how can I say otherwise ? 

Perm. Well, then, how can I, who call myself a 
Christian, do what 1 should abhor even in heathens? 
No, I will not do it. But 1 will buy the right of the 
proper owners, even of the Indians themselves. By 
doing this, I shall imitate God himself, in his justice 
and mercy, and thereby insure his blessing on my col- 
ony, if I should ever live to plant one in North America. 



DIALOGUE XII. 
LIGHT CONVERSATION WITH A HEAVY MAN. 

Mrs. Shawford. Why, Charlotte, there comes Henry 
Warring, the heavy man; what shall we say and do? 
[Mr. Warring enters.] How do you do, to-day, sir, — 
am happy to see you, sir. 

Mr. Warring. Thank you, ma'am. 

Mrs. S. How are Mrs. Warring and Eliza ? 

Mr. W. Quite well, I thank you." 

Mrs. S. I hope they are not fatigued. It was so 
very kind of them to stay so late. Eliza looked very 
well ; I think she has quite recovered. 

Mr. W. Yes. 

Mrs. S. Have you been shooting to-day, Mr. War- 
ring? 

Mr. W. No. 

Charlotte. Pray, is it true, Mr. Warring, that Dew- 
hurst Hall is taken ? 

Mr. W. I don't know. 

Charlotte. A very great thing for the neighborhood, 
if it be. 

Mr. W. Yes. [Pause.] Beautiful weather, to-day. 

Mrs. S. Very fine, indeed. When do your family 
go to town? 

Mr. W. Next week. 

Charlotte. I hope we shall induce father to take us 
soon ; I want to hear Paganini. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 117 

Mr. W. Yes. 

Charlotte. Have you heard him, Mr. Warring ? 

Mr. W. No. 

Charlotte. He must be very wonderful. 

Mr. W. Yes, so they say. 

Charlotte. You are fond of music, are you not ? 

Mr. W. Somewhat. 

Mrs. S. The Dean ages, I think. 

Mr. W. I think he does. 

Charlotte. I suppose William Rushton will soon re- 
turn? 

Mr. W. I suppose so. 

Charlotte. Pray, is there any talk of Donnington 
balls this year ? 

Mr. W. I don't know. 

Charlotte. They were very pleasant. 

Mr. W. Yes, very. 

Mrs. S. Have you heard anything of your cousin ? 

Mr. W. Had a letter the other day. 

Mrs. S. I hope he is quite well ? 

Mr. W. Yes, quite well. 

Mrs. S. I suppose the important day will soon 
arrive ? 

Mr. W. I suppose it will. [Pause.'] 

Mrs. S. Will you take some luncheon, Mr. Warring? 

Mr. W. Thank you, — I have lunched. 

Mrs. S. How does John like Oxford ? 

Mr. W. Pretty well. 

Mrs. S. Great change for him. 

Mr. W. Yes, very. 

Mrs. 18. Sure you will not take any luncheon? 

Mr. W. No. I thank you; I must go. [Rises.] 

Mrs. S. Pray remember us kindly at home. 

Mr. W. Yes. Good-morning. 

Mrs. S. and Charlotte. Good-morning. 

Mrs. S. Mr. Warring is a very heavy man. 

Charlotte. Shocking ! I always dread to see him 
coming. 



118 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XIII. 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT. 

(Mrs. B. and her daughters, Mary and Eliza, seated together. 
Doctor enters.) 

Doctor. Good-morning, Mrs. B. and young ladies. 

Mrs. B. Good-morning, doctor ; I am glad you 
have come, for Mary appears to be quite unwell to-day. 

Doctor. I am sorry for that ; how long have you felt 
unwell, Miss Mary ? 

Mary. Only a few hours ; since last evening. 

Doctor. Were you in usual health until last evening ? 

Mary. Yes, nearly, except the anxiety of preparing 
for the party. 

Doctor. Did your anxiety destroy your appetite ? 

Mary. Oh no, not much ; it only kept me a little 
flurried. 

Mrs. B. Why, Mary ! you have hardly taken food 
enough to keep you alive, the last two days. 

Doctor. Have you slept well at night? 

Mary. Yes, generally, very well. 

Eliza. Why, Mary ! we have both of us lain awake, 
and talked almost all night about the party, ever since 
we received our invitations. 

Doctor. How long was you at the party, Mary? 

Mary. About three hours. 

Doctor. At what time did you return home ? 

Mary. About one o'clock. 

Doctor. Did you feel chilly when coming home ? 

Mary. Yes, doctor, and before, too ; for when I sat 
at the window to rest me, after dancing, I felt quite 
chilly. 

Doctor. Did you dance much during the evening ? 

Mary. Oh, no indeed; I never dance much at parties: 
I only danced ten times. 

Doctor. Did you experience any shortness of breath 
when dancing ? 

Mary. No, doctor, I never get out of breath : I could 
breathe last night just as well as I can now. 

Eliza. Why, Mary ! how can you say so? I won- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 119 

dcr how you could breathe at all, for you know we 
broke three strings before you were laced to suit you? 

Doctor. Did you rest well last jiight, or rather this 
morning ? 

Mary. No, doctor ; I had such a pain in my stomach 
that I could not sleep. 

Doctor. By the way, did you take anything last 
night to disagree with your stomach ? 

Mary. No, not in the least. 

Doctor. I presume you at least tasted the refresh- 
ments? 

Mary. Yes, I ate live or six pickled oysters, and 
drank a little coffee. 

Doctor. Did you eat a bit of the tongue ? 

Mary. I just tasted it. 

Doctor. And some of the al a mode beef ? 

Mary. Only a morsel. 

Doctor. And a bit of the turkey ? 

Mary. Just one wing. 

Doctor. And how was the jelly ? 

Mary. Very fine ; but I only tasted it. 

Doctor. Did you try the sweetmeats, ice-creams, 
custards, cakes, oranges, &c ? 

Mary. Only a mouthful of each. 

Doctor. Did you try the wines and lemonade ? 

Mary. I drank two glasses of champagne, and two 
or three of lemonade. 

Doctor. And yet you took nothing to disagree with 
you? 

Mary. No, not in the least. 

Doctor. Did you dance after this ? 

Mary. Only twice, for I had the headache, and felt 
fatigued. 

Doctor. Let me tell you, Miss Mary, that your sup- 
per and dancing have put you in such a condition, that 
if you are able in a month to attend another party, you 
may be thankful. [Writes a recipe.'] I leave you this 
recipe, and will call again to-morrow. In the mean 
time you must remain quiet, and eat but little, and that 
very simple. Good-morning. 

All. Good-morning, doctor. 



120 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XIV. 
THE TYRANT GESLER, AND WILLIAM TELL. 

Gesler. Why speak' st thou not ? 

W. Tell. For wonder. 

Ges. Wonder 1 

Tell. Yes, that thou should'st seem a man. 

Ges. What should I seem 1 

Tell. A monster ! 

Ges. Ha ! Beware : — think on thy chains. 

Tell. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me 
down, 
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up 
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride 
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth, 
Thou art a monster ! Think upon my chains ! 
Show me the link of them, which, could it speak, 
Would give its evidence against my word. 
Think on my chains ! Think on my chains ! 
How came they on me ? 

Ges. Darest thou question me 1 

Tell. Darest thou not answer? 

Ges. Do I hear ? 

Tell. Thou dost. 

Ges. Beware my vengeance ! 

Tell. Can it more than kill? 

Ges. Enough — it can do that. 

Tell. No — not enough: 
It cannot take away the grace of life, 
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives, 
Its port erect with consciousness of truth, 
Its rich attire of honorable deeds, 
Its fair report, that 's rife on good men's tongues; 
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more 
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun, 
Or, with polluted finger, tarnish it. 

Ges. But it can make thee writhe. 

Tell. It may. 

Ges. And groan. 

Tell. It may ; and I may cry, 
Go on, though it should make me groan again. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 121 

Ges. Whence comest thou ? 

Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn 
What news from them ? 

Ges. Canst tell me any? 

Tell. Ay : they watch no more the avalanche. 

Ges. Why so? 

Tell. Because they look for thee. The hurricane 
Comes unawares upon them ; from its bed 
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track. 

Ges. What do they then 1 

Tell. Thank Heaven it is not thou ! 
Thou hast perverted nature in them. The earth 
Presents her fruits to them, and is not thanked ; 
The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce 
Return his smile ; their flocks and herds increase, 
And they look on as men who count a loss. 
They hear of thriving children born to them, 
And never shake the teller by the hand ; 
While those they have, they see grow up and flourish, 
And think as little of caressing them, 
As they were things a deadly plague had smit. 
There's not a blessing heaven vouchsafes them, but 
The thought of thee doth wither to a curse, 
As something they must lose, and richer were 
To lack. 

Ges. That 's right ! I 'd have them like their hills, 
That never smile, though wanton summer tempt 
Them e'er so much. 

Tell. But they do sometimes smile. 

Ges. Ay ! — when is that ? 

Tell. When they do talk of vengeance. 

Ges. Vengeance ? Dare 
They talk of that? 

Tell. Ay, and expect it, too. 

Ges. From whence ? 

Tell. From Heaven ! 

Ges. From Heaven ? 

Tell. And the true hearts 
Are lifted up to it, on every hill, 
For justice on thee. 
11 



122 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XV. 
FALSE PRIDE. 

Eliza. Miss Nancy, what child was that your aunt 
had in her arms this morning, as she was walking in 
the mall ? 

Nancy. A child ! Miss Eliza; a child ! You don't 
think my aunt would be seen walking in public with a 
child in her arms ! 

Eli. Pray, Miss, where would be the harm? I 
know she has a beautiful pair of twins, and I thought 
it might be one of them, as it was partly covered with 
her cloak. 

Nan. No, indeed it was her lap-dog. 

Eli. Upon my word, Nancy, you have mended the 
matter mightily ! Your aunt is ashamed to be seen 
walking with a child in her arms ; but is not ashamed 
to be seen carrying a paltry puppy through the streets ! 
Pray how much more valuable is a puppy than a child? 

Nan. Why, as to the real value, Eliza, I don't know 
but a child should be prized the highest. Though my 
aunt says she had rather part with both her twins than 
lose her dear little Trip. But, you know, she would be 
taken for one of the lower sort of women, if she were to 
lug a child about with her; whereas nothing makes her 
appear more like a lady than to be seen gallanting her 
little dog. And Trip is none of your common curs, I 
assure you. His mother was imported from Europe ; 
and it is said she once belonged to a lady of nobility. 
You can't think what a sweet little creature he is. 
My aunt nursed him wholly herself ever since he was a 
week old. 

Eli. And who nursed the twins ? 

Nan. They were put into the country with a very 
good woman. They have never been at home but once 
since they were born. But their mamma visits them as 
often, at least, as once a month. 

Eli. Would she be willing to be as long absent from 
her dear little Trip, as you call him ? 

Nan. O no, indeed ! She would run crazy if she 
were to lose him but for one clay. And no wonder : for 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 123 

he is the most engaging little animal you ever saw. 
You would be diverted to see him drink tea out of the 
ladies' cups. And he kisses his mistress delightfully ! 

Eli. It is very noble in your aunt to pay such atten- 
tion to an object of so much consequence. He is cer- 
tainly more valuable than half a dozen children. Does 
your aunt expect to teach him to talk 1 

Nan. Talk ! why he talks already. She says she 
perfectly understands h is language. When he is hungry, 
he can ask for sweetmeats. When he is dry, he can 
ask for drink. When he is tired of running on foot, he 
can ask to ride; and my aunt is never more happy than 
when she has hirn in her arms ! 

Eli. And yet she would not be seen with one of her 
own children in her arms ! 

Nan. Why, that would be very vulgar ; and all her 
acquaintances would laugh at her. Children, you know, 
are always crying ; and no ladies of fashion will ever 
admit them into their company. 

Eli. If children are always crying, little dogs are 
often barking ; and which is the more disagreeable noise '} 

Nan. Oh, the barking of Trip is music to all who 
hear him ! Mr. Fribble, who often visits my aunt, says 
he can raise and fall the eight notes to perfection ; and 
he prefers the sound of his voice to that of the harpsi- 
chord. It was he who brought his mother from Lon- 
don ; and he says there was not a greater favorite 
among all the dogs in possession of the fine ladies of 
court. And more than all that, he says Trip greatly 
resembles a spaniel which belongs to one of the royal 
family. Mr. Fribble and my aunt almost quarrelled, last 
night, to see which should have the honor of carrying 
the dear little favorite to the play. 

Eli. After hearing so many rare qualifications of the 
little quadruped, I do not wonder at your aunt's choice 
of a companion. I am not surprised she should set her 
affections upon a creature so deserving of all her care. 
It is to be wished her children might never come in 
competition with this object of her affections. I hope 
she will continue to maintain the dignity of her sex ; 



124 ' THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

and never disgrace the fashionable circle to which she 
belongs, by neglecting her lap-dog for the more vulgar 
employment of attending to her own offspring. 



DIALOGUE XVI. 
EQUALITY. 

{Jack Anvil, the Blacksmith, and Tom Hod, the Mason.) 

Jack. What's the matter. Tom? Why d' ye look 
so dismal ? 

Tom. Dismal, indeed ! Well enough I may. 

Jack. What ! is the old mare dead ? or work scarce? 

Tom. No, no ; work 's plenty enough, if a man had 
but the heart to go to it. 

Jack. What book art thou reading ? Why dost thou 
look so like a hang-dog? 

Tom. [Looking on his book.] Cause enough. Why, 
I find here that I am very unhappy, and very miserable ; 
which I should never have known if I had not had the 
good luck to meet with this book. O 'tis a precious 
book ! 

Jack. A good sign, though ; that you can't find out 
you're unhappy without looking into a book for it! 
What is the matter ? 

Tom. Matter ? Why I want liberty. 

Jack. Liberty ! That 's bad, indeed ! What ! Has 
any one fetched a warrant for thee. Come, man, cheer 
up ; I'll be bound for thee. Thou art an honest fellow 
in the main, though thou dost tipple and prate a little 
too much at the Rose and Crown. 

Tom. No, no ; I want a new constitution. 

Jack. Indeed ! Why, I thought thou hadst been a 
desperate healthy fellow. Send for the doctor directly. 

Tom. I'm not sick ; I want liberty and equality, and 
the rights of man. 

Jack. O, now I understand thee. What ! thou art 
a leveller and a republican, I warrant ! 

Tom. I'm a friend to the people. I want a reform. 

Jack. Then the shortest way is to mend thyself. 

Tom. But I want a general reform. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. * 1-5 

Jack. Then let every one mend one. 

Tom. Pooh ! I want freedom and happiness, the same 
as they have got in France. 

Jack. What, Tom, Ave imitate them? We follow 
the French ! Why, they only began all this mischief at 
first in order to be jnst what we are already ; and what 
a blessed land nrnst this be, to be in actual possession 
of all they ever hoped to gain by all their hurly-burly. 
Imitate them, indeed ! Why I 'd sooner go to the negroes 
to get learning or to the Turks to get religion, than to 
the French for freedom and happiness. 

Tom. What do you mean by that? are not the French 
free? 

Jack. Free, Tom ! ay, free with a witness. They 
are all so free that there's nobody safe. They make free 
to rob whom they will, and kill whom they will. If 
they don't like a man's looks, they make free to hang 
him without judge or jury, and the next lamp-post 
serves for the gallows ; so then they call themselves free, 
because you see they have no law left to condemn them, 
and no king. to take them up and hang them for it. 

Tom. Ah, but Jack, didn't their king formerly hang 
people for nothing, too? and, besides, were not they all 
papists before the revolution ? 

Jack. Why, true enough, they had but a poor sort 
of religion ; but bad is better than none, Tom. And so 
was the government bad enough, too ; for they could 
clap an innocent man into prison, and keep him there, 
too, as long as they would, and never say with your 
leave, or by your leave, gentlemen of the jury. But 
what's all that to us ? 

Tom. To us ! Why don't many of our governors 
put many of our poor folks in prison against their will ? 
What are all the jails for ? Down with the jails, I say ; 
all men should be free ! 

Jack. Harkee, Tom ; a few rogues in prison keep the 
rest in order, and then honest men go about their busi- 
ness in safety, afraid of nobody; that's the way to be 
free. And let me tell thee, Tom, you and I are tried 
by our peers as much as a lord is. Why, the king can't 
send me to prison, if I do no harm ; and if I do, there 's 
11* 



126 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

good reason why I should go there. I may go to law 
with Sir John, at the great castle yonder; and he no 
more dares lift his little finger against me than if I were 
his equal. A lord- is hanged for hanging matter, as 
you or I should be ; and if it will be any comfort to 
thee, I myself remember a peer of the realm being 
hanged for killing his man, just the same as the man 
would have been for killing him. 

Tom. A lord ! Well, that is some comfort, to be sure. 
But have you read the " Rights of Man? " 

Jack. No, not I : I had rather by half read the 
" Whole Duty of Man." I have but little time for read- 
ing, and people like me should therefore only read a bit 
of the best. 

Tom. Don't tell me of those old fashioned notions. 
Why should not we have the same fine things they have 
got in France? I'm for a constitution, and organiza- 
tion, and equalization, and fraternization. 

Jack. Do be quiet. Now, Tom, only suppose this 
nonsensical equality was to take place ; why, it would 
not last while one could say Jack Robinson ; or suppose 
it could — suppose, in the general division, our new rulers 
were to give us half an acre of ground a-piece ; we 
could, to be sure, raise potatoes on it for the use of our 
families ; but as every other man would be equally busy 
in raising potatoes for his family, why, then, you see, 
if thou wast to break thy spade, I, whose trade it is, 
should no longer be able to mend it. Neighbor Snip 
would have no time to make us a suit of clothes, nor the 
clothier to weave the cloth ; for all the world would be 
gone a digging. And as to boots and shoes, the want 
of some one to make them for us would be a still greater 
grievance than the tax on leather. If we should be sick, 
there would be- no doctor's stuff for us ; for doctors 
would be digging, too. And if necessity did not compel, 
and if equality subsisted, we could not get a chimney 
swept, or a load of coal from pit, for love or money. 

Tom. Well, I am not certain but things are about 
right, after all ; and I '11 try to make the best of them. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 127 

DIALOGUE XVII. 
LEARNING AND USEFULNESS. 

Mr. Howard and Mr. Lester. 

Howard. Life is much like a fiddle : — every man 
plays such a time as suits ,him. 

Lester. The more like a fiddle, the better I like it; — 
anything that makes a merry noise suits me; and the 
man that does not set his hours to music has a dull 
time on't. 

How. But, Lester, are there no serious duties in life? 
Ought we not to improve our minds, and prepare for 
usefulness? 

Les. Why, in the present day, a man's preparing 
himself for usefulness is like carrying coals to New- 
castle. Our country is full of useful men; ten, at least, 
to where one is wanted, and all of them ten times as 
ready to serve the public as the public is to be served. 
If every man should go to Congress who is fit for it, the 
federal city would hardly hold them. 

How. You mean, if all who think themselves fit for 
it. 

Les. No ; I mean as I said. 

How. Then, what do you think fits a man for Con- 
gress ? 

Les. Why, he must be flippant and bold. 

How. What good will these do him, if he is without 
knowledge ? 

Les. O ! he must have knowledge, to be sure. 

How. Well, must he not be a man in whom the peo- 
ple can trust? must he not understand politics? and 
must he not be able and willing to serve his country? 

Les. I agree to all that. 

How. Then you suppose that the federal city could 
hardly hold all our men who unite eloquence with con- 
fidence, knowledge with integrity, and policy with pa- 
triotism. I fear that a counting-house could give them 
full accommodation. 

Les. I don't go so deep into these matters ; but this is 
certain, that when the election comes, more than enough 
are willing to so. 



128 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

How. That, my friend, only proves that more than 
enough are ignorant of themselves. But are there no 
other ways observing the public 7 

Les. Yes ; one may preach, if he will do it for little 
or nothing. He may practise law, if he can get any 
one to employ him; or he may be a doctor; or an in- 
structor ; but I tell you the 'country is crowded with 
learned men begging business. 

How. Then you intend to prepare yourself for the 
ignorant herd, so that you may not be crowded. 

Les. I have serious thoughts of it. You may take 
your own way ; but I will never wear out a pair of fine 
eyes in preparing myself for usefulness, till this same 
public will give me a bond to employ me when I am 
ready to serve them. Until such a bond is signed, sealed, 
and delivered, I shall set my hours to the tune of 
" Jack 's alive." " To-day 's" the ship I sail in, and that 
will carry the flag, in spite of the combined powers of 
"yesterdays" and "to-morrows." 

How. Well, Lester, you can take your choice. I shall 
set my hours to a more serious tune. I ask no bond of 
the public. If my mind is well furnished with knowledge, 
and that same generous public, which has so uniformly 
called to her service the well-informed and deserving, 
should refuse my services, still I shall possess a treas- 
ure, which, after a few years' dissipation, you would 
give the world to purchase, — the recollection of time 
well spent. 



DIALOGUE XVIII. 
THE TWO ROBBERS. 

Alexander the Great and a Thracian Chief. 

Alexander. What ! art thou that Thracian robber, of 
whose exploits I have heard so much ? 

Chief. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. 

Alex. A soldier!— a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! 
the pest of the country ! I could honor thy courage, but 
I must detest and punish thy crimes. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 129 

Chief. What have I done, of which you can com- 
plain ? 

Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; 
violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring 
the persons and properties of thy fellow subjects? 

Chief. Alexander! I am your captive — I must hear 
what you please to say, and endure what you please to 
inflict. But my soul is unconquered ; and if I reply at 
all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man. 

Alex. Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the 
advantage of my power, to silence those with whom I 
deign to converse. 

Chief. I must then answer your question by asking 
another. How have you passed your life? 

Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell 
you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among 
sovereigns, the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest. 
Chief. And does not Fame speak of me, also? Was 
there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was 
there ever — but I scorn to boast. You yourself know I 
have not been easily subdued. 

Alex. Still, what are you but a robber — a base, dis- 
honest robber? 

Chief. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, 
too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting 
the fairest fruits of peace and industry ; plundering, rav- 
aging, killing, without law, without justice, merely to 
gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have 
done to a single district with a hundred followers, you 
have done to whole nations with a hundred thousand. 
If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and 
princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have des- 
olated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities on the 
earth. What, then, is the difference, but that, as you 
were a king and I a private man, you have been able to 
become a mightier robber than I ? 

Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given 
like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have found- 
ed greater. I have cherished arts,' commerce, and phi- 
losophy. 

Chief. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I 



130 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

have taken from the rich. I have established order and 
discipline among the most ferocious of mankind, and 
have stretched out my protecting arm over the op- 
pressed.. I know, indeed, little of the philosophy of 
which you talk, but I believe that neither you nor I shall 
ever atone to the world for half the mischief we have 
done it. 

Alex. Leave me. Take off his chains, and use him 
well. Are we then so much alike ? Alexander like a 
robber ! Let me reflect. 



DIALOGUE XIX. 
THE EVIL ADVISER. 

Thomas. What 's your hurry, Frank 'I stop a minute. 

Frank. I can't stay ! Father sent me with this let- 
ter to the railroad depot. 

Th. Well, the depot won't run away. 

Fr. But the cars will; there's a gentleman going to 
New York, who promised to carry this letter, and there 's 
money in it for my brother. 

Th. But don't you see it's but ten minutes past 
three, — and the cars don't start till four, and you have 
time enough for what I want of you. 

Fr. Well, what do you want? 

Th. Just step in here to see the wild beasts with me ; 
you have never been, have you ? 

Fr. No : I '11 go when I come back from my errand. 

Th. No, you can't, for then it will be time to go to 
the writing-master. 

Fr. Then I '11 go with you to-morrow. 

Th. No, you can't, for this is the last day of the ex- 
hibition. 

Fr. Is it ? that 's bad ! I did not know there were any 
beasts in town till to-day. How many are there ? 

Th. Ever so many ; there 's a polar bear, and an 
elephant, and a most beautiful rhinoceros ■ 

Fr. I have seen a rhinoceros, and he is the ugliest 
creature that ever was ; his skin sets as loosely upon 
him as a sailor's trousers. 

Th. Well, there's a royal tiger 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 131 

Fr. Is there ? I never saw a royal tiger ! 

Th. Oh! he's a beauty — all yellow, and covered 
with black stripes. Then there are little leopards play- 
ing just like kittens; and, — there! there! do you hear 
that? that's the lion roaring ! 

Fr. Whew! that's a peeler! How long will it take 
to see them ah"? 

Th. Oh ! not half an hour ; and it won't take you 
five minutes to run down to the depot afterwards, if you 
clip it like a good fellow. 

Fr. Are there any monkeys? 

Th. Plenty of them ! the funniest monkeys you ever 
saw ; they make all sorts of faces. 

Fr. Well, — I don't know, — what if I should be too 
late for the cars 1 

Th. No danger of that, I tell you ; the town clock 
up there is too fast ; it 's all out of order ; and, besides, 
you might see half the beasts while you are standing 
here thinking about it; looking up the street and down 
the street. 

Fr. Well ; come along, then ; where 's your money ? 

Th. Oh ! I don't pay ! I got acquainted with the 
door-keeper after I had been in twice, and now he lets 
me in for nothing every time I bring a fellow that does 
pay. 

Fr. Oh ho ! well, I suppose it 's quarter of a dollar, 
and I have one somewhere in my pockets. [Pulling out 
his handkerchief to search for the money, drops the let- 
ter.] Ah ! here it is ! Come, Tom ! no time to be lost. 
Mind you do not let me stay too long. 

[They go into the exhibition booth.] 

[Frank's father, passing along, picks up the letter, 
examines it, looks round for Frank, and passes hastily 
away.] 

[After some time, the boys come out.] 

Th. You did not see half of them, you were in such 
a hurry and worry. 

Fr. I know it. Are you sure that clock is too fast, 
Tom? 

Th. I don't know, — I suppose so, — the clocks are 
wrong half the time. 



132 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Fr. Why, you told me it was too fast, Tom ! and 
now I '11 bet anything I shall be too late ! I wish I had n't 
gone in ! 

Th. Well, why don't you move, then ? What are 
you rummaging after? 

Fr. Why, after my letter. I 'm sure I put it in this 
pocket. What in the name of wonder has become of it? 

Th. Look in t' other pocket. 

Fr. It is n 't there ! nor in my hat ! What shall 1 
do? 

Th. Why, you can't have lost it, can you ? 

Fr. I have lost it ; I am as sure as can be I had it 
in this very pocket just before I met you, and now it 's 
gone ! 

Th. May be somebody stole it in the crowd. 

Fr. That 's comfort ! There was ever so much 
money in it, for I heard father talking about it at dinner- 
time. 

Th. Oh ! I '11 tell you what 's become of it ? 

Fr. What? what? 

Th. Why, I guess the elephant took it out of your 
pocket ! 

Fr. You ought to be ashamed to stand there laugh- 
ing, after you have got me into such a scrape ! I have a 
great mind to go in again and look all round. 

Th. They won't let you in again, unless you pay. 

Fr. Oh, Tom! what will my father say to me? 
Where shall I look? I wish I had never heard of the 
beasts ; there was no comfort in looking at them, for I 
was thinking of the cars all the time; and now my letter 
is lost, and brother Henry's money, and all ; and what 
will father do to me? 

Th. What 's the use of telling him anything about 
it ? he '11 never know whether the letter went or not, if 
you don't say a word. 

Fr. Yes, he will; my brother will write to inquire 
for the money. 

Th. Well, and can't you say you gave the letter to 
the gentleman? 

Fr. No, Tom; I can't do that. I can't tell a lie, 
and, above all, to my father. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 133 

Th. The more fool you ! But you needn't look so 
mad about, it. There 's your father coming now ! run 
and tell him, quick, and get a whipping ! 

Fr. He will punish me, Tom ; that he will. What 
shall I do ? 

Th. Take my advice; I '11 tell a fib for you, and do 
you hold to it. 

Fr. I never told a lie in my life, Tom ! 

Th. Then it 's high time you did ; you '11 have to 
tell a great many before you die. 

Fr. I don't believe that. 

Th. Well, here 's your father. Now see how I '11 
get you out of the scrape. That 's right ! keep staring 
up at the hand-bill on the wall. 

{Enter Father ; Frank stares at the hand-bill.) 

Father. Why, Frank, you have run yourself out of 
breath ; I trust that letter will go safely, for your brother 
wants the money very much. 

Th. Frank was just in time, sir. The cars were 
just starting. 

Fath. Oh ! you went with him, did you 1 

Th. Yes, sir ; and I saw the gentleman put the let- 
ter in his pocket-book very carefully. I fancy it will go 
safe enough. 

Fath. I fancy it will. What is in that hand-bill, 
Frank, that interests you so much? 

Fr. I don't know, sir. 

Fath. What's the matter, my boy? 

Fr. I can't stand it, father ! I can't stand it ! I had 
rather take ten whippings, Tom, any day, than — than- 

Fath. Ho, ho! what is all this? 

Th. You are a fool, Frank. 

Fr. I know I am a fool ; but I can't tell a lie. I 
lost the letter, father ; I went to see the wild beasts with 
Tom, and lost the letter ! 

Fath. And this precious fellow wanted you to de- 
ceive me about it, did he ] 

Th. Why, I thought 

Fath. Frank ! I would willingly lose a dozen let- 
ters, with ten times as much money in them, for the 
12 



134 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

pleasure of finding you resist the temptation ! Come 
here, my boy, and leave off crying. I found the letter, 
and carried it myself to the depot in time for the cars ; I 
can forgive your folly, — since it has not ended in wick- 
edness ; but remember one thing ; I shall not forgive you, 
if, henceforward, you associate with this unprincipled 
boy! {To Thomas.') Begone, sir! I am glad to see 
shame on your face. Had my boy taken your advice, 
he, too, would have been at this moment a detected, con- 
science-smitten, despised liar ; but he is holding up his 
head, and his heart is light in his bosom. You are the 
very boy, Thomas, whom I was requested to take into 
my employment ; but I will have nothing to do with 
you. Never come near my son again ! 



DIALOGUE XX. 
THE BEER TRIAL. 

William. I saw you this morning, James, go into a 
shop where Albany cream ale was advertised, and buy 
a glass. I did not expect you would do that, as you 
belong to the Temperance Society. 

James. I'm none of your teetotalers, I tell you, Wil- 
liam. I signed the ardent spirit pledge, and I'll stick to 
that, up to any of you. But I like good cider and ale. 
Mother says it purifies the blood, and then it braces me 
up, and makes me feel so nice and strong here, {placing 
his hand on his stomach.] 

Wm. You think it purifies the blood, do you ? 
Have you ever read the famous beer trial, and do you 
know how your precious Albany cream ale is made? If 
you have not. I can lend it to you ; the reading of it may 
make you think that there is something gets into the 
blood which might as well be kept out. 

James. Beer trial, what is that? I never heard 
of it. 

Wm. Why, the trial of Mr. Delavan, who was sued 
by the Albany brewers, who brew your favorite cream 
ale, for saying that they made it out of such filthy 
water that no dog nor horse would drink it. Water 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 135 

that was as thick as cream — the reason, I suppose, it is 
called cream ale. 

James. None of your talking so. I don't believe a 
word on it. I asked why they called it cream ale, and 
they said it was because the foam looked yellow, like 
cream. 

Wm. I should think it would look green instead of 
yellow, for the top of the pond was green ; but there 
was enough in the pond under the green cover to give 
the yellow tinge. 

James. Now, William, I won't bear it. I say the ale 
is good ale. None of your nonsense. 

Wm. Well, James, read for yourself. If you are 
pleased to drink beer made out of a pond which is the 
receptacle of the wash of slaughter-houses and grave- 
yards, and where are thrown all manner of dead beasts, 
you may ; I say, 

" Water, pure water, pure water for me." 

But every one to his liking ; as my Latin book says, de 
gustibus 11011 disputandum. 

James, Well, William, if it is as you say, I'll drink 
no more cream ale. Let me see the trial. 

Wm. Here it is. Read it through ; but mind, now, 
don't take your hand off your stomach, for you will 
want something to brace you up, better than cream ale, 
before you get through. 



DIALOGUE XXI. 
YANKEEISM. 

{Mr. Pry and Mr. Sly meet for the first time, at a public 
house.) 

Mr. Pry. How do you do, Mr. 1 

Mr. Sly. Yes, that's my name, and I'm as well as 
usual. 

Mr. Pry. Let me see, — I think we have met before 
on the road ; I know I have seen you somewhere. 

Mr. Sly. Very likely, for I often go there. 

[A short pause.] 



136 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Mr. Pry. Ahem ! I think you travel for 

Mr. Sly. Noses. 

Mr. Pry. Moses? Let me see, — he lives in 

Mr. Sly. I said noses, and not Moses. 

Mr. Pry. O yes ; you are in the toy trade, are you 1 

Mr. Sly. By no means, sir. I deal in human noses, 
the ordinary sneezing noses of every day physiognomy. 

Mr. Pry. Very odd traffic that, surely ; may I ask 
how you conduct your business, for I never before met 
a nasal merchant. 

Mr. Sly. Then I shall be most happy to deal with 
you. I cannot say that your nose is of the first quality ; 
it turns up rather too much, and belongs to a variety not 
greatly in demand ; but nevertheless I will buy it of you 
at a fair price. 

Mr. Pry. What, my nose '? 

Mr. Sly. Yes, sir. I am serious in my proposal ; 
I '11 buy your nose. 

Mr. Pry. To be delivered, — when? 

Mr. Sly. When you have no longer any use for it. 

Mr. Pry. That's fair ; to be paid for, — when ? 

Mr. Sly. This very moment; I will give you its 
full value, — say fifty dollars. 

Mr. Pry. It 's a bargain ; I accept your offer. 

Mr. Sly. There is only this condition, — that we both 
agree to forfeit one hundred dollars, if either of us should 
go from the bargain. 

Mr. Pry. Agreed ! that is, if you allow me all my 
life to enjoy your property, and do not attempt to inter- 
fere with it in the performance of its functions. 

Mr. Sly. All right. You may import or export the 
merchandise in question, as you please. I will not even 
require you to get it insured. 

Mr. Pry. Then I consent to your clause in the agree- 
ment. 

Mr. Sly. And I will pay you directly. 

[ The agreement is drawn and signed, and the money 
paid ; the -purchaser, in the mean time, whispers to the 
waiter, who soon returns from the kitchen with a pair of 
tongs having the extreme ends red hot.] 

Mr. Sly. Give me the tongs, waiter. [He takes the 
to?is r s, and reaches towards the seller.] 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 137 

Mr. Pry. Why, what's all this mean? [Moving 
back, and holding on his nose.] 

Mr. Sly. Only a pair of red hot tongs, sir ; every 
time I make a purchase, I mark my merchandise, in 
order to insure its not being changed. Having bought 
your nose, I must, of course, put our usual brand upon it. 

Mr. Pry. But. zounds ! I cannot allow this. 

Mr. Sly. Then I must remind you of the clause in 
the agreement, and that you are the first to break the 
contract. 

Mr. Pry. But, sir, put yourself in my position. 

Mr. Sly. That's impossible! I am the buyer, not 
the seller. I claim one hundred dollars, as the forfeit, 
and all will admit the justice of my demand. 

Mr. Pry. Well, if I must, I must ; and here 's the 
needful, [giving him the ??ioney.] You have caught me 
by the nose this time, and I must make the best of it. 
No one knows the value of a nose, until called to part 
with it. 

Mr. Sly. I trust we part as friends; certainly we 
know each other better than we did when we met. 



DIALOGUE XXII. 
THE MONSTER OF MANY NAMES. 

Charles. I have heard it said, William, that our 
language is, of all others, the most difficult for foreigners 
to learn. Can you account for it 1 

William. I cannot, indeed, unless it is because there 
are so many words which signify the same thing. For 
instance, when a fellow feels a little out of sorts, and 
thinks it is because he is dry, he goes to the store and 
calls for his -'bitters," "black strap," "sling," "four 
o'clock," &c. ; the liquor-sellers all understand him, — 
he wants some strong drink. 

C. You are right ; but the terms you mention are 
rather out of date, I believe. They have got an entire 
new list of names for that thing, now-a-days. But this 
only increases the difficulty I referred to. 
12* 



138 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

W. Yes ; and some of them are very appropriate. 

C. Some, I think, call it Samson. 

W. Samson ! I suppose that's because it's so strong ; 
is it not ? 

C. Yes; but that is not the only reason. Samson, 
you know, deceived the people about his strength, and 
it was a long while before they found out where it lay. 
Besides this, Samson was a great man-slayer; but where 
Samson slew his thousands, strong drink has slain its 
tens of thousands. 

W. I have heard of a certain Quaker who called it 
Pharaoh ; for I perceive, said he, it will not let the 
people go. 

C. You remind me of a sailor I saw the other day. 
Jack was already "half seas over," when he went into 
Smith's and called for an ounce of old tangle-legs. 
Thinks I, — What is that? So I kept my eye on the 
scales ; but Smith understood him ; so he gave him a 
glass, you see, and off he went. But, dear me, I guess 
it was tangle-legs ! First he went this way, and then 
that, zigzag, like a Virginia fence, till his legs got into a 
complete tangle, and down he went. 

W. You see old Pharaoh had got hold of him, and 
by tangling his legs he would n't let him go. But that's 
not the worst of it ; go home with that fellow, if he 's 
got any, and you '11 find everything else in a tangle. I 
guess you don't catch me in that snarl. 

C. They say the travelling community call it oats. 
Is that true ? 

W. Oats ! what, for men ? I guess they wet them, 
then. 

C. Why, I know of a store that 's got no other 
sign but " Oats for horses." But mind you, they don't 
mean four-legged horses ; for everybody knows that 
they are not very partial to oats from the wine measure. 

W. Ah, I know what store you mean. I was down 
there the other day, and saw this all acted out. A 
young sort of a buck came driving up, all of a lather, 
jumped out of his gig, and said he must have some oats 
to help him over the hill. The old mare — she called, 
too. But he replied, " Hold your tongue, there ; there 's 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 139 

nothing here for you; it is my turn, now." So I 
watched him ; and, thinks I, I guess you '11 not go any 
faster for such oats as these. But I was mistaken. 
Crack went the whip, and away flew the poor creature, 
over hill and dale, like a sheet of lightning. 

C. Well, William, so much for the oats ; now, did 
you ever hear this thing called pig. 
. ' W. Pig! pig ! I have heard of the striped pig affair, 
out there at old Dedham. But I guess they little 
thought, when they made choice of that word, how ap- 
propriate it was; for this liquor business, you know, is 
rather a swinish concern throughout. 

C. I ask your pardon. Who ever heard of a drunken 
hog ? I am inclined to believe it a base imposition on 
the pig community. What do you think? 

W. Well, I guess they think something so, for, when 
uncle Jim went out to feed his hogs last night, he under- 
took to clean the trough a little, you know ; but he lost 
his balance, (his legs being a little tangled about this 
time of day,) and over he went, without ceremony, 
into madam Piggy's dining-room. To excuse his rude- 
ness, he exclaimed, " Don't you be concerned; I am as 
good as the best of you." To which the whole family 
replied, ' : Doubted ! doubted ! " and away they scam- 
pered. 

C. To conclude, William, did you ever hear this 
thing called hard-ware? 

W. Hard-ware ! Yes ; and true enough it is hard. 
all hard, and nothing but hard. It is hard for the con- 
sumer, hard for the vender, hard for the neighborhood, 
town, county and state. And he that can deal in such 
kind of hard-ware as this must be a hard, hard cus- 
tomer. And if I am not mistaken, he gives every 
worthy person occasion to think hard of him ; more 
especially the poor drunkard's household, where nothing 
is so plenty as hard looks, hard words, hard knocks, and 
hard, hard times. 



140 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XXIII. 
DOING BECAUSE OTHERS DO. 

Henry. Well, Charles, I don't think that sounded 
very well. 

Charles. What do you mean, Henry 1 

Hen. O, you need not make strange of it. I heard 
you plainly enough. 

Char. Heard me ? What did you hear ? 

Hen. Why, I heard you calling poor Jemmy Club- 
foot names. That was rather mean business, Charles. 

Char. May you not mistake, now ? Are you sure 
you heard me ? 

Hen. Very sure, Charles, very sure. Don't you 
suppose I know your shrill voice? Why, I could tell it 
among all the voices of all the boys in town. 

Char. Well, — suppose you did, then, — for there's 
no use in denying it. But what of all that ? 

Hen. What of it 1 Why, as I just said, it is mean 
enough for any boy ; and I am ashamed of it in you. 
What harm has Jemmy ever done you ? and why do 
you wish to ridicule him on account of his deformity 
and lack of brightness? Supposing you were in his sit- 
uation? Would such treatment from boys suit you? 

Char. You are very grave about it, I should think. 
I have no desire to abuse old Jemmy ; and why should 
you think I have ? 

Hen. If you did not intend to insult him, why did 
you assail him with such language ? Just tell us that ? 

Char. Why, I heard John Warner calling after him, 
and so I joined in. 

Hen. Aha ! You joined in with John, then ; and 
why did John do it ? 

Char. Well, you can ask him ; here he comes, and 
he may speak for himself. 

Enter John. 

John. What now, boys ? What 's going on ? Who 
called my name ? 

Hen. Charles and I. We were speaking of Jemmy 
Clubfoot, as he is called ; and of the insult offered him 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 141 

by the boys. I had been asking Charles why he sung 
out after him in the streets ; and what do you suppose 
his answer was ? 

John. Really, I couldn't tell ; except that he liked 
the sport of it ? 

Hen. No : he denies that. He says he did so because 
you did ! a great, reason, to be sure ! Now, will you be 
so condescending as to tell me why you did it ? 

John. You seem to be very inquisitive. Why do you 
take tbe matter up so seriously? Do you think there is 
any harm in having a little fun with old Jemmy? 

Hen. John, if you were old Jemmy, should you like 
such salutations ? Come, now, I have touched your 
benevolence, I know ; so now " own up," and be hon- 
est. 

John. O, I shan't dodge that question. I spoke about 
Charley's liking the sport of it ; but I did n't mean so. 
I should n't have thought about calling after Jemmy, if 
William Simpson hadn't put me up to it. 

Hen. Indeed ! so here is another confession. Well, 
now, I should like to ask William, — and here he is, 
coming, fresh from the scene, I suppose, — yes — I '11 ask 
him who coaxed him to do his screaming. 

John. Come on here, William, and give us your evi- 
dence ; we have a court here. 

Enter William. 

William. A court? Well, don't try me very hard. 
But what 's your case now? 

John. Henry wants to ask you a question. 

Wm. What 's that, pray ? 

Hen. O, a very simple one, William. We were 
speaking of the insults offered by the boys to poor Jem- 
my Clubfoot. I was asking Charles here, why he sung 
out after him. He says it was because John did it. 1 
asked John his reason, and he says your example in- 
duced him. Now, will you tell me your object in assail- 
ing this poor fellow? 

Wm. O, I've no particular reason to give. The 
other boys sing out after him, and so do I, now and then. 

Hen. There ! now we have the weighty reason of 



142 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

the whole matter. You do it because others do it ; not 
stopping to ask whether it is right, whatever others may 
think or do. Is n't that it? 

Wm. Yes, I suppose so.' But why do you speak as 
though it were of so much importance 1 Do you suppose 
I wish to injure old Jemmy ? 

Hen. No, no, William; I don't think that; but you 
don't believe that such salutations to the unfortunate are 
really right, do you ? 

Wm. No, I do not. 

Hen. Well, now let us see if we cannot learn a les- 
son here. I remember what our schoolmaster said to 
Henry Stocker, the other day, when he threw stones, and 
Henry told him he did so because Joseph White did. 
" Supposing Joseph White should tell you to jump over- 
board, would you do it?" I thought this a good hit. 
But this is not all. We shall find that many of our or- 
dinary evils are kept in being in this way. One upholds 
them because another does. A silly fashion comes up. 
One is foolish enough to run into it because another does. 
One swears because another does. One drinks, one 
gambles, one lies, one defrauds and steals, because an- 
other does. You remember what the temperance lec- 
turer said, the other evening, about the rumseller, who 
said if he did n't sell liquor to get folks drunk, somebody 
else would. So because others sinned, he must. Why 
this is a wicked pretence ; and we ought to know it and 
feel it. We should learn to do a deed because it is right, 
or not to do it because it is wrong ; no matter what others 
do, or what they do not. What say you, William ; is n't 
this right ? 

Wm. I think so. 

John and Charles. (Both.) And so do I. 

Hen. Well, just to be winding up our talk, I will 
recite to you a few verses from Cowper. They present 
the matter, I think, in a ludicrous light. 

(All three.) Let 's hear. 

" A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, 
Had once his integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
And asked him to go and assist in the job. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 143 

" He was shocked much indeed, and he answered, ' no ! 
What ! rob our good neighbor ! I pray you don't go ; 
Besides, the man's poor, and his orchard 's his bread ; 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.' 

" ' You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
But apples we want, and apples we '11 have ; 
If you will go with us, you shall have a share ; 
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.' 

" They spoke, and Tom pondered — - I see they will go; 
Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could, 
But staying behind here will do him no good. 

" ' If the matter depended alone upon me, 

His apples might hang till they drop from the tree ; 
But since they will take them, I think I '11 go too ; 
He will lose none by me, though I get a few.' 

"His scruples thus silenced, Tom* felt more at ease, 
And went, with his comrades, the apples to seize ; 
He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan — 
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man ! " 

Win. That 's a good hit, as you said of your school- 
master. I shall think more of this matter, in time to 
come. 

Hen. I trust you will ; and that Charles, and John, 
and all of us, will be wise enough, in the future, just to 
ask ourselves, when we are prompted to do anything, of 
at least a questionable character — not whether others 
do it — nor whether it is a custom, or the fashion — nor 
whether the many or the few approve it; but whether 
it is really in itself just and right. When I hear of any 
better course than this, I will try to inform you of it; 
and when you do, just send me word. 

Wm. I certainly will, Henry; and I hope we shall all 
receive good from this interview. 



144 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XXIV. 

THE INDIAN DOCTOR. 

Pari I. 

(Doctor Hartshorn is seen at his table, on which are bottles, 
bundles of herbs, and •pill-boxes. Wakefield and Plumb enter 
on another part of the stage.) 

Wakefield. Good-evening, Capt. Plumb; what's the 
news to-day I Anything from Mexico ? 

Plumb. Not a word, neighbor Wakefield; — dull 
times for news. 

W. Have you heard of the famous Indian doctor 
who has just come to town ? 

P. No ; and don't want to. I am no friend to such 
quacks. All they want is to get away our money. 

W. If what they say of Dr. Hartshorn is true, he 
is very different from the quacks you speak of. He 
gives his advice and his drugs without auy fee, from rich 
or poor, and then he professes to heal moral and not 
physical maladies. 

P. He must be a comical fellow, to work for nothing 
and "find himself." I should like to see him; but the 
old scamp shan't get any of my money. Where shall 
we find him, Mr. Wakefield ? 

W. He has a kind of stall down in Fourth-street. 
Will you go with me and see him 1 

P. W T ith pleasure, for I should really like to see a 
man who works for nothing. (Exeunt.') 

Doctor. {Atune.) Well ! here I am in this famous 
town of A. The place looks thrifty, and the people are 
said to be shrewd and industrious. They have many 
fine churches, and good schoolhouses ; and so far, it is 
well. But I have had only two patients since I came 
here. One was a miser, who wanted contentment, and 
the other was a spendthrift, who expected to be cured 
by having more money. Still I am not discouraged, and 
hope to do some good before I leave the place. 

Enter Wakefield and Plumb. 

Good-evening, gentlemen, — I am happy to see you ; 
please walk up and look at my collection of medicines 
for mental diseases. Can I be of any service to either 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 145 

of you ? Have you any trouble on your mind that you 
wish to have relieved 1 

W. I have troubles, doctor, but they are beyond the 
reach of your skill. My character is suffering from slan- 
der, and the treachery of professed friends. I am troubled 
and fretted, and my loudest complaints are unheeded ; 
and I fail in all my efforts to avenge myself upon my 
accusers. 

Doct. Your cure is not so hard as you imagine. Here 
is an herb called Patience lily ; it is an humble plant, 
but has great medicinal virtues. Steep it in the syrup 
of Contentment, and take it every morning. You must 
give up all thoughts of revenge on your enemies, and 
you will live down their slanders. {Exit Wakefield.') 

{To Plumb.) Well, my friend, what can I do for 
you? 

P. If you don't ask me to pay you anything for your 
advice, I will tell you my troubles, and follow your di- 
rections. 

Doct. I never take pay from any one ; my reward is 
found in the good I may do to my afflicted, fellow beings. 

P. Well, then, to tell you the truth, I have got a little 
property, and every one is trying to get it away from me. 
I am constantly perplexed lest I should lose it by the 
knavery of others. Then, there are the subscription 
papers, and the minister tax, and the town and county 
taxes, and the school tax, so that I find, although my 
own children are all grown up and out. of the way, I am 
obliged to pay for educating other people's children, and 
supporting, in the alms-house, poor people that have no 
business to be poor. The thoughts of these things worry 
me night and day, and I have no rest. O dear ! 

Doct. For how much are you taxed ? 

P. Ten thousand dollars ! It is abominable ! 

Doct. And how much property have you 1 

P. What 's that to you? That 's my business, and 
not yours. 

Doct. Well, if you cannot confide in your physician, 
you must endure your maladies, for I cannot prescribe 
for you unless I know the extent of your disease. 

P. If you will promise secrecy, doctor, I will tell 
13 



146 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

you, but I would 'nt let the assessors know for anything. 
Let me see, {counting on his fingers,] stocks, notes, 
mortgages, — I '11 call it thirty thousand dollars. 

Doct. Is that all ? 

P. Why no, not exactly ; there 's the real estate, 
about twenty thousand dollars more. 

Doct. Fifty thousand dollars ! And you complain 
because you are taxed for ten thousand ' You certainly 
have no just cause for complaint. 

P. That 's not it. doctor: but I want to be used right. 
There's my neighbor Thompson is worth as much as I 
am, and he gets off for eight thousand ; and what is 
worse than all, my money goes for schooling other 
people's children. 

Doct. If you will follow my directions, you can 
easily be cured. You have only to take half an ounce 
of these pills of Philanthropy, weighed in the scales of 
Justice. It may be hard for one of your constitution to 
take the pills, but they will have a tendency to increase 
your benevolence, and cause you to love your neighbors 
as yourself. Your rest will then be sweet and pleasant. 
{Exit Plumb.) 

Enter Patrick O'Brien and Jack Buntlin. 

Patrick. Bless your good soul, docther, and can you 
help poor Patrick O'Brien, and Peggy, and the nine 
small chiltren that has n't had a drop of mate or a dish 
of tay to ate since last Friday was a wake 1 And the 
poor little chiltren starving for the want of it ! O dear, 
docther, I lay awake all night draming about it, and 
wake up in the morning to hear 'em crying for murphies, 
the darlints ! 

Doct. Your difficulties relate rather to the body than 
to the mind, and I must help you by operating upon the 
hearts of others. You will take frequent doses of the 
lily of Patience, with the balm of Forgetfulness, and 
relief will shortly come to you. 

Jack Buntlin. {To Patrick.) Holloa, shipmate; 
here's three dollars for you. Two good hard Spanish 
Millers, and one Mexican. [Rings them on the floor.] 
There 's good silver. Take them. They are the last I 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 147 

have left of two hundred and thirty when I was paid off 
from the sloop of war Marion, — fine ship that ! Now go 
home and get food for your young cabin boys, and tell 
them when Jack Buntlin comes here again he'll call 
and see how they come on. (Exit Patrick.} 

( To the doctor.) Now, old fellow, I want you to cure 
me. 

Doct. You must first tell me your complaint. 

Jack. You see, cap'n, I'm apt to get rather taut, and 
carry too much sail ; then, you know, a smart breeze 
from the norre'd and east'rd comes up, and I ship the 
cable and go ashore under bare poles ; so the craft lays 
on her beam ends. You understand me, cap'n? 

Doct. I can't say that I do — please be more explicit. 

Jack. Well, cap'n, you see I'm apt to make more 
lee-way than head-way when I get ashore, and after 
I 'm at home three weeks there aint a shot in the locker. 

Doct. You mean, Jack, that you can't keep your 
money. 

Jack. (Clapping his hands.) That's it, old boy. 
When I come ashore, there are so many sea gulls and 
land pirates that I 'm apt to get on the breakers. Then 
there are so many poor and distressed fellow sailors, it 
makes Jack feel so all-overish just here, [puts his hand 
on his heart,] that he can't help clapping his hand in 
his fob, and giving to the poor fellows ; but then I feel 
doubly paid by the thanks I get, 

Doct. Your infirmity is a very amiable one. It is 
much oftener that I have to treat cases of an opposite 
kind. It is only necessary for you to take some of this 
Temperance cordial, a few grains of these Prudence 
powders, and some drops of this essence of Tranquillity, 
and your infirmity will be cured. 

Jack. Here 's good luck and a sailor's blessing on 
you, cap'n. [Drinking from the bottle of cordial.] So 
good-by till next vy'ge. (Exit Jack.) 

Doct. (Solus.) Well, so it is. The world is full of 
strange characters. There was Plumb, who would 
have thought more of giving three cents from his forty- 
five or fifty thousand than this poor, honest, kind-hearted 
tar does of giving all he has. Alas ! almost every one 



148 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

is diseased, but how few are willing to take the proper 
medicine, forsooth, because it chances to be bitter ! They 
think themselves wise, but die fools ! 

But here comes another patient — a mere boy — surely 
he cannot want my advice. 

Enter Frank Careless. 

Frank. My name is Frank Careless, and they tell 
me that you get folks out of trouble, just as easy as other 
doctors cure the toothache. 

Doct. Yes, my child, I profess to eradicate diseases 
of the mind, as the physician does the tooth ; but my 
patients are not always willing to bear the pain. But 
what is your complaint, my lad ? 

Frank. I don't want to study so hard. Here I 
have been to the Primary School, reading, and spelling, 
and studying geography and history ; and now I have 
got into another school, they give me bigger books and 
more studies, and there is no end to it. 

Doct. Don 't you like your studies 1 

Frank. Yes, I think I like them well enough, so far; 
but the trouble is, there is so much more to do. I like 
the school first rate — I can answer every question in 
Colburn's First Lessons, and that 's more than father 
can do. 

Doct. I see what you need; — take this little root, 
which is called Application, chew a little piece of it every 
time you have a lesson to get, and I will be bound to 
say that you will never again complain of hard studies. 

Frank. Thank you, sir. {Exit Frank.) 

{Doctor alone.) I have spent more time here than I 
expected when I came, but I flatter myself that I have 
done some good in my efforts to bestow happiness upon 
the people. I will now leave this village, and go to 
another place. I have, however, been so well pleased 
and interested in my patients here, that I shall certainly 
visit them at the end of the year, when I hope to find 
that my skill has been rewarded with success. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 149 



THE INDIAN DOCTOR. 
Part II. 

[Interval of a year supposed to have 
(Doctor at his table.) 

Here I find myself, after a year's absence, in the good 
old witch-hating, money-loving town of A; celebrated 
for its industry, its shoes and leather, its great men and 
good men ; and last, though not least, for its fine ladies. 
I hope it will, in future, be celebrated for its high moral 
and intellectual position. Here comes one of my old 
customers. 

Enter Frank. 

Frank. O doctor, how glad I am to see you ! I want 
some more of your root of Application. You don't know 
how easy I have got my lessons since I saw you. Where 
does this famous root grow ? 

Doctor. It flourishes in a hard soil, and is found in 
the vale of Industry. It is a capital plant for scholars. 

F. I find it so, and mean to go to that vale of Industry 
and dig some. With the help of this root, I got the Mul- 
tiplication Table in almost no time, and I can say it all 
by heart, from "twice two" to "twelve times twelve." 
If I have a long lesson to get, or a hard sum to do, I just 
take a good lot of this Application root, and then I get 
along first rate. {Exit Frank.) 

Doct. What a bright little fellow ! I am glad some 
good has been effected by my last visit. But here comes 
Patrick, honest Jack, and Mr. Plumb. 

Enter Patrick (Jlirien, Jack Bwitlin, and Mr. Plumb. 

Doct Well, Pat, how have you got along since I saw 
you last ? Are Peggy and the children well 1 

Pat. All well, yer honor, and many thanks to you. 
and these good folks besides. There hasn't been a 
day since Jack gave me the three dollars, that Patrick 
O'Brien has not had something to eat for all the chil- 
tren, and a bit for the pig. 

Doct. You keep a pig, then 7 

Pat. That I do, docthcr, and the natist little hani- 
13* 



150 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

mal you ever set your eyes upon. 'T would do yer heart 
good to see his hintelligint countenance when he lays 
down slaping with the chiltren ; and then he talks like a 
book, yer honor; but he don't talk English, he uses his 
own tongue, docther. How Peggy and the little chil- 
tren will cry when the young janetleman goes into the 
pork barrel ! 

Doct. How came you by this remarkable pig ? 

Pat. {Pointing to Mr. Plumb.) Here 's the blessed 
man that gave poor Patrick the pig, all gratis and for 
nothing, bless his ginerous sowl ; and that is not all he 
has given us, by a great dale, besides rinding me work 
to do. 

Doct. { To Mr. Plumb.) Then you have also de- 
rived benefit from my prescriptions. 

Plumb. Most truly I have, and 1 now come to express 
to you my gratitude for your kindness and skill in effect- 
ing a cure on a patient like myself. Your waters of 
Justice have eased me of a vast many troubles and 
twinges of conscience ; and the pills of Philanthropy 
have changed my disposition from selfish and niggardly 
habits, to liberal and generous feelings towards all around 
me. Nothing now does me so much good as to see the 
poor made happier by the wealth Providence has put in 
my hands ; and my rest at night is sweet and pleasant. 
{Plumb and Patrick go out.) 

Jack. Now, it 's my turn. I say, cap'n, I want 
you to take care of this little blue book for me till I get 
home from the next vy'ge. It 's the Savings Bank book, 
and shows that I have got a hundred and fifty dollars in 
their locker; besides that, I have got a little chink left in 
my pocket, [rattling his money,] to help Patrick O'Brien, 
and give to a poor distressed shipmate. So much for 
your cordial of Temperance, and the essences of Pru- 
dence and Frugality. I must have a new supply, to keep 
the ship in trim for the next vy'ge. Good-by, old fel- 
low, for I'm in a hurry. 

Enter Wakefield. 

Doct. Well, what effect has the decoction from the lily 
of Patience had on your complaints, friend Wakefield ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 151 

Wakefield. Most excellent ! By the calmness and 
quiet it has afforded me, I have been able to live down 
all the falsehoods and calumnies which before so much 
annoyed me. I am on good terms with all mankind, and 
nobody seems to wish me ill. I shall always remember 
with gratitude your share in my cure, and hope many 
others, who are in the same situation, will apply the same 
remedy. 

Doct. I am always glad to witness the gratitude of 
my patients, as that is my only reward. 

Wake. You seem to make every article of medicine 
a text for a sermon, by which you give good advice to 
your hearers. 

Doct. Yes, Mr. Wakefield ; but like other preachers, 
I sometimes find that the members of my congregation 
are very willing to take home the text, while they forget 
all about the sermon. This is the second time I have 
visited your flourishing town of A, and I am so much 
encouraged by my success, that I intend, another year, 
to make you another visit ; but my engagements now 
oblige me to shut up shop. Farewell ! {Exeunt.') 



DIALOGUE XXV. 
THE NEWS DEALER. 

Mrs. Fidget. 'Tis no such thing, Mr. Timothy; give 
me leave to know the private concerns of a family that 
I have lived with before you were born. 

Timothy. If that's the case, they have no private 
concerns by this time ; they are pretty public now. 

Mrs. F. Jackanapes ! does it follow, that because I 
sometimes indulge you with my communications, I tell 
them to all the world ? 

T. No, it does not follow ; it generally goes before. 
You retail your knowledge every week-day in small 
paragraphs, and on Sunday you rush forth yourself, fresh 
from the press, a walking journal of weekly communi- 
cation. 

Mrs. F. Well, am I not right there, monkey ? It is 
the moral duty of a Christian to instruct the ignorant, 
and open the minds of the uninformed. 



152 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

T. Yes, but you are not content with opening their 
minds, but open their mouths, too, and set them a prat- 
ing for a week to come.. 

Mrs. F. It requires but little pains, however, to set 
you a prating. Such a tongue ! mercy on me ! gibble, 
gabble, prittle, prattle, forever and ever. 

T. There 's a plumper for you ! When I came to 
live in this house, I never opened my lips for the first 
quarter. The thing was impossible; your eternal clat- 
ter almost starved as well as stunned me; I could put 
nothing either in or out of my mouth ; I was compelled 
to eat my victuals at midnight, for until you were as fast 
as a church, I was forced to be silent as a grave. 

Mrs. F. Why, sirrah, jackanapes, monkey! his hon- 
or has suffered your impertinent freedoms till you are 
become quite master of the house, and now I suppose 
you want to be mistress too. 

T. So do you ; and therefore we quarrel. Two of a 
trade, you know 

Mrs. F. But your master shall know of your inso- 
lence. 

T. Let him, — he likes it ; he says himself I am an 
odd fish, a thornback, I suppose, or I should not be able 
to deal with an old maid. 

Mrs. F. Old maid, impudence ! have I lived to this 
day to be called an old maid at last ? Pretty well, in- 
deed ! It is my own fault that I have no husband. 

T. If you had one, he 'd be the most envied mortal 
in England. 

Mrs. F. Why, fellow, why? 

T. Because there is not such another woman in the 
kingdom. 

Mrs. F. Silence, fellow ! You have certainly mis- 
taken my character. If I know anything of myself, I 
never talk more than is necessary; and as for curiosity, 
nobody has less, or interferes in her neighbor's affairs so 
seldom as I do. 

T. No one has accused you of curiosity; but now we 
are on the subject, I suppose you have heard the report 
that is about the country. 

Mrs F. Report of what, pray ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 153 

T. I am sorry for poor Miss Twist. 

Mrs. F. Miss Twist ! what of her ? 

T. Upon my word, I ought not to have mentioned 
her name. Pray don't say a word about Miss Twist; 
only I thought it might concern her. 

Mrs. F. What might concern her ? 

T. The report. 

Mrs. F. What report? 

T. Why, that Robert is going to marry Miss Man- 
deville. 

Mrs F. Miss Mandeville ! Miss Mandeville ! 

T. Why yes, Miss Mandeville. But pray don't tell 
the Twists. 

Mrs. F. Not I ; I would not tell them for the world. 

T. No, pray don't tell them; I quite dread their hear- 
ing it ; it would be cruel and unkind to acquaint them 
with it at all abruptly, for I am confident they expected 
him to marry Miss Twist. 

Mrs. F. Indeed, they were sure of it. No, indeed, I 
would not have them told of it for the world. {Putting 
on her bonnet.') 

T. But pray remember not to say a word about it to 
the Twists. 

Mrs. F. O, not for the world ! Good-morning, Mr. 
Timothy. (Exit.) 

( T. alone.) So, with all her want of curiosity, she has 
packed off to the Twists to tell them the news, not a 
word of which is true. So much for gossiping, so much 
for curiosity, so much for ever interfering in the affairs 
of her neighbors ! 



DIALOGUE XXVI. 



Caroline. What a pity it is that we are born under a 
republican government ! 

Horace. Upon my word, that is a patriotic observa- 
tion for an American. 

C. O, I know that it is not a popular one ; we must 
all join in the cry of liberty and equality, and bless our 



154 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

stars that we have neither kings nor emperors to rule 
over us, and that our first audible tones were republican. 
If we don't join in the shout, and hang our hats on 
hickory trees or liberty poles, we are considered unnat- 
ural monsters. For my part, I am tired of it, and I am 
determined to say what I think. I hate republicanism ; 
I hate liberty and equality; and I don't hesitate to 
declare, that I am for a monarchy. You may laugh, 
but I would say it at the stake. 

H. Bravo ! why, Sister, you deserve to be prime 
minister to the king. 

C. I have no wish to mingle in political broils, not 
even if I could be as renowned as Pitt or Fox ; but I do 
think our equality is odious. Why, this very day, the 
new chamber-maid put her head into my room and said, 
" Caroline ! your marm wants you." 

H. Good ; I suppose if ours were a monarchical 
government, she would have bent one knee to the ground, 
or saluted your little foot with a kiss, before she spoke. 

C. Why, Horace, I am ashamed of you ! You know 
that such forms exist only in the papal dominions. I 
believe his holiness the Pope requires such a ceremony. 

H. Perhaps you would like to be a Pope. 

C. No, I am sure I would not. 

H. May I ask your highness what you would like to 
be? 

C. 1 should like to be a countess. 

H. You are quite moderate, dear sister ; a countess, 
now-a-days, is the fag end of nobility. 

C. O, but it sounds so delightfully, — "The young 
Countess Caroline ! " 

H. If sound is all, you shall be gratified ; we will 
call you "The young Countess Caroline." 

C. But that would be mere burlesque, Horace, and 
make me appear ridiculous. 

H. Really, I think nothing is so absurd as for us to 
be aiming at titles. 

C. Yes, but it would be different if they were hered- 
itary. If we had been born to them, if they came to us 
through belted knights, and high-born dames, then we 
might be proud to wear them. I never cease to regret 
that I was not born under a monarchy. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 155 

H. But you seem to forget that all are not lords and 
ladies in the royal dominions. Suppose you had been 
born among the plebeians, and that it had been your lot 
to crouch and bend, or be trodden under foot by some 
titled personage, whom in your heart you despised ; 
what then 1 

C. You may easily suppose that I did not mean to 
take those chances. No ; I meant to be born among the 
higher ranks. 

H. Your own reason must tell you that all cannot 
be born among the higher ranks, for then the lower ones 
would be wanting to constitute the comparison. Now, 
Caroline, we come to the very point. Is it not better to 
be born under a government, in which there is the 
extreme neither of high nor low ; where one man cannot 
be raised permanently and preeminently over another ; 
and where true nobility consists of talent and virtue. 

C. That sounds very patriotic, brother ; but I am 
inclined to think that wealth constitutes our nobility, 
and the right of abusing each other, our liberty. 

H. You are quite fond of aphorisms, sister ; but they 
are not always true. 

C. Well, is it not true that our rich men, who ride in 
their own carriages, who own fine houses, and who 
count by millions, are our great men? 

H. They have all the greatness that money can buy, 
but that is very limited. 

C. In my opinion, money is power. 

H. There ydu err. Money may buy a temporary 
power, but talent is power itself; and, when united to 
virtue, a God-like power, one before which the mere 
man of millions quails. No, give me talents, health and 
unwavering principle, and I will not ask for wealth, but 
I will carve my own way ; and. depend upon it, wealth 
will be honorably mine. 

C. Well, I am sure I heartily wish you the posses- 
sion of all together — talent, principle and wealth. Really, 
without flattery, the two first you have, and the last, 
according to your doctrine, will come when you beckon 
to it. Now, I assure you, that I feel as determined as 
you do to carve my own way. You may smile ; but, 



156 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

depend upon it, the time is not distant when you shall 
see me in possession of all that rank which any one can 
obtain in our plebeian country. 



DIALOGUE XXVII. 
FORTUNE TELLING. 

Mrs. Credulous. Are you the fortune-teller, sir, that 
knows everything % 

Fortune Teller. I sometimes consult futurity, madam ; 
but I make no pretensions to any supernatural knowl- 
edge. 

Mrs. C. Ay, so you say ; but everybody else says 
you know everything ; and I have come all the way 
from Boston to consult you, for you must know I have 
met with a dreadful loss. 

F. T. We are liable to losses, in this world, madam. 

Mrs. C. Yes, and I have had my share of them, 
though I shall be only fifty, come Thanksgiving. 

F. T. You must have learned to bear misfortunes 
with fortitude, by this time. 

Mrs. C. I don't know how that is, though my dear 
husband, rest his soul ! used to say, " Molly, you are as 
patient as Job, though you never had any children to 
lose, as he had." 

F. T. Job was a model of patience, madam, and 
few could lose their all with so much resignation. 

Mrs. C. Ah, sir, that is too true ; for even the small 
loss I have suffered overwhelms me. 

F. T. The loss of property, madam, comes home to 
the bosom of the best of us. 

Mrs. C. Yes, sir ; and when the thing lost cannot 
be replaced, it is doubly distressing. When my poor, 
good man, on our wedding-day, gave me the ring, "Keep 
it, Molly," said he, '-'till you die, for my sake." And 
now, that I should have lost it, after keeping it thirty 
years, and locking it up so carefully all the time, as I 
did 

F. T. We cannot be too careful, in this world, 
madam ; our best friends often deceive us. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 157 

Mrs. C. True, sir, true — but who would have 
thought that the child I took, as it were, out of the 
street, and brought up as my own, could have been 
guilty of such ingratitude? She never would have 
touched what was not her own, if her vagabond lover 
had not put her up to it. 

F. T. Ah, madam, ingratitude is the basest of all 
crimes ! 

Mrs. C. Yes, but to think that the impudent crea- 
ture should deny she took it, when I saw it in the pos- 
session of that wretch myself. 

F. T. Impudence, madam, usually accompanies 
crime. But my time is precious, and the star that rules 
your destiny will set, and your fate be involved in dark- 
ness, unless I proceed to business immediately. The 
stars inform me, madam, that you are a widow. 

Mrs. C. La! sir, was you acquainted with my 
deceased husband ? 

F. T. No, madam ; we do not receive our knowledge 
by such means. Thy name is Mary, and thy dwelling- 
place is Boston. 

Mis. C. Some spirit must have told you this, for 
certain. 

F. T. This is not all, madam. You were married 
at the age of twenty years, and were the sole heir of 
your deceased husband. 

Mrs. C. I perceive, sir, you know everything. 

F. T. Madam, I cannot help knowing what I do 
know ; I must therefore inform you that your adopted 
daughter, in the dead of night 

Mrs. C. No, sir ; it was in the day-time. 

F. T. Do not interrupt me, madam. In the dead 
of night, your adopted daughter planned the robbery 
which deprived you of your wedding-ring. 

Mrs. C. No earthly being could have told you this, 
for I never let my right hand know that I possessed it, 
lest some evil should happen to it. 

F. T. Hear me, madam ; you have come all this 
distance to consult the fates, and find your ring. 

Mrs. C. You have guessed my intention exactly, 
sir. 

14 



158 



THE AMERICAN STEAKEK. 



F. T. Guessed ! madam. I know this is your 
object ; and I know, moreover, that your ungrateful 
daughter has incurred your displeasure, by receiving the 
addresses of a worthless man. 

Mrs. C. Every word is gospel truth. 

F. T. This man has persuaded your daughter 

Mrs. C. I knew he did ; I told her so. But, good sir, 
can you tell me who has the ring? 

F. T. This young man has it. 

Mrs. C. But he denies it, sir. 

F. T. No matter, madam ; he has it. 

Mrs. C. But how shall I obtain it again ? 

F. T. The law points out the way, madam; it is 
my business to point out the rogue — you must catch 
him. 

Mrs. C. You are right, sir; and if there is a law to 
be had, I will spend every cent I own, but I will have 
it. I knew he was the robber, and I thank you for the 
information. (Going.) 

F. T. But thanks, madam, will not pay for all my 
nightly vigils, consultations, and calculations. 

Mrs. C. O, right, sir. 1 forgot to pay you. For 
how much am I indebted to you ? 

F. T. Only five dollars, madam. 

Mrs. C (Handing him the money.) There it is, 
sir. I would have paid twenty rather than not have 
found the ring. 

F. T. I never take but five. Farewell, madam; 
your friend is at the door with your chaise. 

(He leaves the room. ) 

Enter Friend. 

Friend. Well, Mary, what does the fortune-teller 
say? 

Mrs. C. O, he told me I was a widow, and lived in 
Boston, and had an adopted daughter — and 

Friend. But you knew all this before, did you not ? 

Mrs. C. Yes; but how should he know it? He 
told me, too, that 1 had lost a ring, 

Friend. Did he tell you where to find it ? 

Mrs. C. O yes ! he says that fellow has it, and I 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 159 

must go to law and get it, if he will not give it up. 
What do you think of that I 

Friend. It is precisely what any fool could have told 
you. But how much did you pay for this precious in- 
formation 1 

Mrs. C. Only five dollars. 

Friend. How much was the ring worth? 

Mrs. C. Why, two dollars, at least. 

Friend. Then you have paid ten dollars for a chaise 
to bring you here, rive dollars for the information that 
you had already, and all this to gain possession of a 
ring not worth one quarter of the expense ! 

Mrs. C O, the rascal I how he has cheated me ! I 
will go to the world's end but I will be revenged ! 

Friend. You had better go home, and say nothing 
about it, for every effort to recover your money will 
only expose your folly. 



DIALOGUE XXVIII. 

children's wishes. 

Susan. 
I wish I was a little bird, 

Among the leaves to dwell ; 
To scale the sky in gladness, 

Or seek the lonely dell. 
My matin song should celebrate 

The glory of the earth ; 
And" my vesper hymn ring gladly, 

With the thrill of careless mirth. 

Emily. 
I wish I were a floweret, 

To blossom in the grove ; 
I 'd spread my opening leaflets 

Among the plants I love ; — 
No hand should roughly cull me, 

And bid my odors fly ; 
I silently would ope to life, 

And quietly would die. 



160 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Jane. 
I wish I was a gold-fish, 

To seek the sunny wave, 
To part the gentle ripple, 

And 'mid its coolness lave ; 
I 'd glide through day delighted, 

Beneath the azure sky, 
And when night came on in softness, 

Seek the star-light's milder eye. 

Mother. 
Hush, hush, romantic prattlers ! 

You know not what you say, 
When soul, the crown of mortals, 

You would lightly throw away : 
What is the songster's warble, 

And the floweret's blush refined, 
To the noble thought of Deity, 

Within your opening mind ? 



DIALOGUE XXIX. 
CHOICE OF COUNTRIES. 

Father. 
I would cross the wide Atlantic, 

And the cliffs of England hail, 
For there my country's fathers 

First set their western sail. 
I would view its domes and palaces, 

And tread each learned hall, • 
And on the soil where Newton trod 

My foot should proudly fall. 
I would gaze upon its landscapes, 

The dell and sunny glade, 
And tread, with awe, the cloistered aisle 

Where Addison is laid. 

John. 
I would seek the Indian Ocean, 

Where the sea-shell loves to grow, 
Where the tints upon its bosom 

In gorgeous beauty glow. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 1 (U 

I would chase the parting billow 

For treasures new and rare, 
And with wreaths of blushing coral 

Entwine my waving hair. 

Amos. 
I would be a ship's commander, 

And find the northern pole, 
While o'er untravelled oceans 

My venturous bark should roll : 
Or, I 'd seek untrodden islands, 

Amid Antarctic seas, 
And the standard of my country 

Plant first before the breeze. 

Eliza. 
Oh, give to me my birth-place, 

My dear, my native home ! 
From its fair and sheltering borders 

I ask not e'er to roam. 
My schoolmates here are playing, 

My parents dear I see ; 
Oh, give to me my birth-place, — 

It is fair enough for me ! 

Mother. 
The whole broad earth is beautiful 

To minds attuned aright, 
And wheresoe'er my feet have turned, 

A smile has met my sight. 
The city, with its bustling walk, 

Its splendor, wealth, and power, — 
A ramble by the river side, — 

A passing summer flower ; 
The meadow green, the ocean's swell, 

The forest waving free, 
Are gifts of God, and speak in tones 

Of kindliness to me. 
And oh ! where'er my lot is cast, 

Where'er my footsteps roam, 
If those I love are near to me, 

I feel that spot my home. 
14* 



162 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XXX. 
WHY ALEXANDER WAS CALLED GREAT. 

Son. 
How big was Alexander, Pa, 

That people call him great ? 
Was he, like old Goliath, tall — 

His spear an hundred weight ? 
Was he so large that he could stand 

Like some tall steeple high ; 
And while his feet were on the ground, 

His hands could touch the sky ? 

Father. 

no, my son ; about as large 
As I or uncle James. 

'T was not his stature made him great, 
But greatness of his name. 

Son. 
His name so great? I know 'tis long, 

But easy quite to spell — 
And more than half a year ago 

I knew it very well. 

Father. 

1 mean, my child, his actions were 

So great, he got a name 
That everybody speaks with praise, 
That tells about his fame. 

Son. 
Well, what great actions did he do ? 
I want to know it all. 

Father. 
Why, he it was that conquered Tyre, 

And levelled down her wall, 
And thousands of her people slew; 

And then to Persia went, 
And fire and sword, on every side, 

Through many a region sent ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 163 

A hundred conquered cities shone 

With midnight burnings red, 
And, strewed o'er many a battle ground, 

A thousand soldiers bled. 

Son. 
Did killing people make him great ? 

Then why was Abdel Young, 
Who killed his neighbor, training day, 

Put into jail and hung ? 
I never heard them call him great ! 

Father. 
Why, no — 'twas not in war — 
And him that kills a single man 
His neighbors all abnor. 

Son. 
Well, then, if I should kill a man, 

I 'd kill a hundred more ; 
I should be great, and not get hung, 

Like Abdel Young before. 

Father. 
Not so, my son, 't will never do : — 
The gospel bids be kind. 

Son. 
Then they that kill, and they that praise, 
The gospel do not mind. 

Father. 
You know, my child, the Bible says 

That you must always do 
To other people, as you wish 

To have them do to you. 

Son. 
But, Pa, did Alexander wish 

That some strong man would come 
And burn his house, and kill him too, 

And do as he had done ? 



164 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And everybody calls him great 

For killing people so ! 
Well, now, what right he had to kill, 

I should be glad to know. 
If one should burn the buildings here, 

And kill the folks within, 
Would anybody call him great, 

For such a wicked thing ? 



DIALOGUE XXXI. 



Father. 
Dost thou love wandering ? Whither would'st thou go ? 

Dream'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair ? 
Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow ? 

These spicy forests, and this golden air ? 

Daughter. 
0, yes, I love the woods and streams so gay ; 

And more than all, O father, I love thee ; 
Yet would I fain be wandering — far away, 

Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be. 

Father. 
Speak, mine own daughter with the sun-bright locks ! 
To what pale, banished region would'st thou roam? 

Daughter. 

father, let us find our frozen rocks ! 

Let 's seek that country of all countries, — Home ! 

Father. 
Seest thou these orange flowers ? this palm that rears 
Its head up towards heaven's blue and cloudless dome ? 

Daughter. 

1 dream, I dream ; mine eyes are hid in tears : 

My heart is wandering round our ancient home. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 165 

Father. 
Why, then, we '11 go. Farewell, ye tender skies, 
Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam ! 

Daughter. 
On, on ! Let 's pass the swallow as he flies ! 

Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now, — for Home ! 



DIALOGUE XXXII. 
CHOICE OF HOURS. 

Father. 
I love to walk at twilight, 

When sunset nobly dies, 
And see the parting splendor 

That lightens up the skies, 
And call up old remembrances, 

Deep, dim as evening gloom, 
Or look to heaven's promises, 

Like star-light on a tomb. 

Laura. 
I love the hour of darkness, 

When I give myself to sleep, 
And I think that holy angels 

Their watch around me keep. 
My dreams are light and happy, 

As I innocently lie, 
For my mother's kiss is on my cheek, 

And my father's step is nigh. 

Mary. 
I love the social afternoon, 

When lessons all are said, 
Geography is laid aside, 

And grammar put to bed ; 
Then a walk upon the Battery, 

With a friend, is very sweet, 
And some money for an ice-cream, 

To give that friend a treat. 



166 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Mother. 
I love the Sabbath evening, 

When my loved ones sit around, 
And tell of all their feelings, 

By hope and fancy crowned ; 
And though some plants are missing, 

In that sweetly thoughtful hour, 
I will not call them back again 

To earth's decaying bower. 



DIALOGUE XXXIII. 

WOMAN — ACCOUNT CURRENT. 

First Speaker. 
Oh ! the woe that woman brings ! 

Source of sorrow, grief, and pain ! 
All our evils have their springs 

In the first of female train. 

Second Speaker. 
Oh! what joys from woman spring, 

Source of bliss and purest peace ! 
Eden could not comfort bring, 

Till fair woman showed her face. 

First Speaker. 
Eve, by eating, led poor Adam 

Out of Eden and astray ; 
Look for sorrow still, where madam, 

Pert and proud, directs the way. 

Secorid Speaker. 
When she came, good, honest Adam 

Clasped the gift with open arms ; 
He left Eden for his madam, 

So our parent prized her charms. 

First Speaker. 
Courtship is a slavish pleasure, 

Soothing a coquettish train ; 
Wedded, — what's the mighty treasure ?- 

Doomed to drag a golden chain. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKEK. 

Second Speaker. 
Courtship thrills the soul with pleasure ; 

Virtue's blush on beauty's cheek : 
Happy prelude to a treasure 

Kings have left their thrones to seek ! 

First Speaker. 
Noisy clack and constant brawling, 

Discord and domestic strife ; 
Empty cupboard, children bawling, 

Scolding woman made a wife. 

Second Speaker. 
Lovely looks and constant courting, 

Sweetening all the toils of life ; 
Cheerful children, harmless sporting, 

Lovely woman made a wife ! 

First Speaker. 
Gaudy dress and haughty carriage, 

Love's fond balance fled and gone ; 
These the bitter fruits of marriage ! 

He that 's wise will live alone ! 

Second Speaker. 
Modest dress and gentle carriage, 

Love triumphant on his throne ; 
These the blissful fruits of marriage, — 

None but fools would live alone. 



DIALOGUE XXXIV. 
THE SEASONS CHILDREN'S PREFERENCES. 

Jane. 
I love the Spring, when slumbering buds 

Are wakened into birth ; 
When joy and gladness seem to run 

So freely o'er the earth. 



167 



168 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Charles. 
I love the Summer, when the flowers 

Look beautiful and bright ; 
When I can spend the leisure hours 

With hoop, and ball, and kite. 

George. 
I love the Autumn, when the trees 

With fruit are bending low ; 
When I can reach the luscious plums 

That hang upon the bough. 

Frank. 
I love to have the Winter come, 

When I can skate and slide, 
And hear the noise of merry sleighs 

That swiftly by us glide. 

Anna. 
I love the seasons in their round ; 

Each has delights for me ; 
Wisdom and love in all are found : 

God's hand in each I see. 

Mother. 
You 're right, my child ; remember Him, 

As seasons pass away ; 
And each revolving year will bring 

You nearer heavenly day. 



PART III. -PIECES OF POETRY. 



EXERCISE 1. 
A PSALM OF LIFE. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle, — 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead. 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; — 
15 



170 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait ! 



EXERCISE II. 

AMBITION, FALSE AND TRUE. 

I would not wear the warrior's wreath, 

I would not court his crown ; 
For love and virtue sink beneath 

His dark and vengeful frown. 

I would not seek my fame to build 

On Glory's dizzy height ; — 
Her temple is with orphans filled ; 

Blood soils her sceptre bright. 

I would not wear the diadem, 

By folly prized so dear ; 
For want and woe have bought each gem, 

And every pearl 's a tear. 

I would not heap the golden chest 

That sordid spirits crave ; 
For every grain, by penury cursed, 

Is gathered from the grave. 

No ; let my wreath unsullied be, 

My fame be virtuous youth ; 
My wealth be kindness, charity, — 

My diadem be truth ! 



EXERCISE III. 

ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD. 

Long years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, 
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green, — 
The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed, 
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



fri 



I thought of the friends who had roamed with me there, 
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair, — 
All scattered ! — all sundered by mountain and wave, 
And some in the silent embrace of the grave ! 

I thought of the green banks that circled around, 

With wild flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine crowned ; 

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 

As the face of the sky on a blue summer night : 

And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed ; 
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade ; 
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find 
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind. 

All eager, I hastened the scene to behold, 
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old ; 
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore 
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 

'T was a dream ! — not a token or trace could I view 
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, ■ — 
"Like a tale that is told," — they had vanished away. 

And methought the lone river, that murmured along, 
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, 
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above, 
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove. 

I paused : — and the moral came home to my heart: — 
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart ! 
Our visions are baseless, — our hopes but a gleam, — 
Our staff but a reed, — and our life but a dream. 

Then, oh ! let us look — let our prospects allure — 
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure ; 
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time. 



EXERCISE IV. 

A HINT ON STEET MANNERS. 

Though books on Manners are not out of print, 
An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. 
Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet, 
To spin your wordy fabric in the street ; 



172 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

While you are emptying your colloquial pack, 
The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. 

Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale 
Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale : 
Health is a subject for his child, his wife, 
And the rude office that insures his life. 

Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul, 
Not on his garments to detect a hole : 
" How to observe" is what thy pages show, 
Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau ! 
O, what a precious book the one would be, 
That taught observers what they 're not to see ! 

I tell in verse — 't were better done in prose — 
One curious trick that everybody knows ; 
Once form this habit, and it 's very strange 
How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. 
Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, 
Who meet, like others, every little while, 
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow, 
And " How d' ye do ?" or " How 's your uncle now ?" 
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, 
But slightly weak, and somewhat undefined, 
Rush at each other, make a sudden stand, 
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand ; 
Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck, 
Their meeting so was such a piece of luck ; 
Each thinks the other thinks he 's greatly pleased 
To screw the vice in which they both are squeezed ; 
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow, 
Both bored to death, and both afraid to go ! 



EXERCISE V. 

THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

There 's a bold, bald bird, with a bending beak, 
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek, 
That inhabits the crag, where the cliff-flowers blow, 
On the precipice top, in perpetual snow. 

He sits where the air is shrill and bleak, 
On the splintered point of a shivered peak, 
Bold, bald, and stripped, like a vulture torn, 
In wind and strife, his feathers worn. 



llli: AMERICAN SPEAKER. 173 

All ruffled and stained, yet gleaming bright, 
Round his serpent neck, that 's wrinkled and white, 
Winds a red tuft of hair, which glitters afar, 
Like the crest of a chieftain thinned in war. 

This bird of the cliff, where the barren yew springs, 
Where the sun-beams play, and the wind-harp sings, 
Sits erect, unapproachable, fearless, and proud, 
And screams, flies aloft, and lights in the cloud. 

He 's the bird of our banner : — the eagle that braves, 
When the battle is there, the wrath of the waves ; — 
He rides on the storm, in its hurricane march, 
'Mid lightning's broad blaze, across the blue arch. 

He dips his bold wing in the blushes of day ; 
Drinks noon's fervid light, and eve's parting ray ; 
He visits the stars at their home in the sky, 
And meets the sun's beam with an unquailing eye. 



EXERCISE VI. 

THE YOUNG ORATOR. 

You 'd scarce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage ; 
And, if I chance to fall below 
Demosthenes or Cicero, 
Don't view me with a critic's eye, 
But pass my imperfections by. 
Large streams from little fountains flow ; 
Tall oaks from little acorns grow : 
And though I now am small and young, 
Of judgment weak, and feeble tongue; 
Yet all great, learned men, like me, 
Once learned to read their A, B, C. 
But why may not Columbia's soil 
Rear men as great as Britain's isle ; 
Exceed what Greece and Rome have done, 
Or any land beneath the sun ? 
Mayn't Massachusetts boast as great 
As any other sister state ? 
Or, where 's the town, go far and near, 
That does not find a rival here? 
15* 



174 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Or, where 's the boy, but three feet high, 
Who 's made improvement more than I ? 
These thoughts inspire my youthful mind 
To be the greatest of mankind ; 
Great, not like Cesar, stained with blood ; 
But, like Washington, great in good. 



EXERCISE VII. 

PROLOGUE. 

Dear friends, we thank you for your condescension, 

In deigning thus to lend us your attention ; 

And hope the various pieces we recite, 

(Youth though we are,) will yield you some delight. 

From wisdom, and from knowledge, pleasure springs, 
Surpassing far the glaring pomp of kings ; 
All outward splendor quickly dies away, 
But wisdom's honors never can decay. 

Blest is the man who treads her paths in youth, — 

They lead to virtue, happiness, and truth ; 

Sages and patriots in these ways have trod", 

Saints have walked in them till they reached their God. 

The powers of eloquence can charm the soul, 
Inspire the virtuous, and the bad control ; 
Can rouse the passions, or their rage can still, 
And mould a stubborn mob to one man's will. 

Such powers the great Demosthenes attained, 
Who haughty Philip's conquering course restrained ; 
Indignant thundering at his country's shame, 
Till every breast in Athens caught the flame. 

Such powers were Cicero's : — with patriot might, 
He dragged the lurking treason forth to light, 
Which long had festered in the heart of Rome, 
And saved his country from her threatened doom. 

Nor to the senate or the bar confined ; — 
The pulpit shows its influence o'er the mind ; 
Such glorious deeds can eloquence achieve ; 
Such fame, such deathless laurels, it can give. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 175 

Then say not this, our weak attempt, is vain, 
For frequent practice will perfection gain ; 
The fear to speak in public it destroys, 
And drives away the bashfulness of boys. 



EXERCISE VIII. 



CLEON AND I. 



Cleon hath a million acres — 

Ne'er a one have I ; 
Cleon dwelleth in a palace — 

In a cottage, I ; 
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes — 

Not a penny, I ; 
But the poorer of the twain is 

Cleon, and not I. 

Cleon, true, possesseth acres, 

But the landscape, I ; 
Half the charms to me it yieldeth 

Money cannot buy ; 
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, 

Freshening vigor, I ; 
He in velvet, I in fustian, — 

Richer man am I. 

Cleon is a slave to grandeur — 

Free as thought am I ; 
Cleon fees a score of doctors — 

Need of none have I ; 
Wealth surrounded, care-environed, 

Cleon fears to die ; 
Death may come, he '11 "find me ready, 

Happier man am I. 

Cleon sees no charms in Nature — 

In a daisy, I ; 
Cleon hears no anthem ringing 

In the sea and sky; 
Nature sings to me forever — 

Earnest listener, I ; 
State for state, with all attendants, 

Who would change ? — Not I. 



176 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER, 

EXERCISE IX. 
WHAT I HATE TO SEE. 

I hate to see an idle dunce, 
Who don't get up till eight, 

Come slowly moping into school, 
A half an hour too late. 

I hate to see a shabby dress ; 

The buttons off his clothes; 
With blacking on his hands and face, 

Instead of on his shoes. 

I hate to see a scholar gape 
And yawn upon his seat, 

Or lay his head upon hjs desk, 
As if almost asleep. 

I hate to see him, in his class, 
Sit leaning on his neighbor, 

As if to hold himself upright 
Were such prodigious labor. 

I hate to see a boy so rude, 

That one might think him raised 

In some wild region of the woods, 
And but half civilized. 

I hate to see a scholar's desk 
With toys and playthings full, 

As if to play with rattle traps 
Were all he did at school. 

I hate to see a shabby book, 
With half the leaves torn out, 

And used as if the owner thought 
'T were made to toss about. 

And now I 've told you what I hate, 

I '11 only stop to say, 
Perhaps I '11 tell you what I love, 

Upon some other day. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 177 

EXERCISE X. 

CASABIANCA, 

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of 
the Orient, remained at his post, (in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had 
taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned ; and perished in the explo- 
sion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.] 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the stormy 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done ?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father !" once again he cried, 
" If I may yet be gone !" — 
And but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair ; 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still yet brave despair — 

And shouted but once more aloud, 
" My father ! must I stay V 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 



178 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Then came a burst of thunder sound — 
The boy — oh ! where is he ? 

— Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strew the sea ! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young, faithful heart. 



EXERCISE XL 
NEW ENGLAND. 

Land of the forest and the rock, 

Of dark blue lake and mighty river, 
Of mountains reared aloft to mock 
The storm's career, the lightning's shpck, 

My own green land forever ! 
Land of the beautiful and brave, 
The freeman's home, the martyr's grave, 
The nursery of giant men, 
Whose deeds have linked with every glen, 
And every hill, and every stream, 
The romance of some warrior dream ! 
Oh ! never may a son of thine, 
Where'er his wandering steps incline, 
Forget the sky which bent above 
His childhood like a dream of love, 
The stream beneath the green hill flowing, 
The broad-armed trees above it growing, 
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing 
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn 
Breathed o'er the brave New England born ! 
Or mark the stranger's jaguar hand 

Disturb the ashes of thy dead, — 
The buried glory of a land 

Whose soil with noble blood is red, 
And sanctified in every part, — 

Nor feel resentment, like a brand, 
Unsheathing from his fiery heart ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 179 

Oh ! greener hills may catch the sun 

Beneath the glorious heaven of France ; 
And streams, rejoicing as they run 

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance, 
May wander where the orange bough 
With golden fruit is bending low ; 
And there may bend a brighter sky 
O'er green and classic Italy, 
And pillared fane and ancient grave 

Bear record of another time, 
And over shaft and architrave 

The green luxuriant ivy climb ; 
And far towards the' rising sun 

The palm may shake its leaves on high 
Where flowers are opening, one by one, 

Like stars upon the twilight sky ; 
And breezes soft as sights of love 

Above the broad banajaa stray, 
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove 

A thousand bright-hued pinions play ! 
Yet unto thee, New England, still 

Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms, 
And thy rude chart of rock and hill 

Seem dearer than the land of palms ; 
Thy massy oak and mountain pine 

More welcome than the banyan's shade ; 
And every free, blue stream of thine 

Seem richer than the golden bed 
Of oriental waves, which glow 
And sparkle with the wealth below ! 



EXERCISE XH. 

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

[The writer of the following lines left the endearments of home, and lost his 
health, in the pursuit of wealth.] 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? 



180 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear, 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams, 

Of Teviot loved while still a child ; 

Of castled rocks, stupendous piled, 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave ; 

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, 
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy played, 

Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacredliatal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts, that soared sublime, 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear ; — 
A gentle vision comes by night, 

My lonely widowed heart to cheer ; 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
That once were guiding-stars to mine ; 

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ; — 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

I left a heart that loved me true ; 
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart : the grave, 

Dark and untimely, met my view ; 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha ! comest thou now so late to mock 
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn ; 

Now that his frame the lightning shock 
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 181 

From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the prey, 

Vile slave ! thy yellow dross I scorn ; 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 



EXERCISE XIII. 

INDIAN NAMES. 

" How can the Red Men be forgotten, when so many of our states, territo- 
ries, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving? " 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, 

There rings no hunter's shout ; — 
But their name is on your waters, — 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'T is where Ontario's billow 

Like ocean's surge is curled ; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tributes from the west, 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their cone-like cabins, 

That clustered o'er the vale. 
Have disappeared, as withered leaves 

Before the autumn gale ; — 
But their memory liveth on your hills, 

Their baptism on your shore, 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid her young renown ; 
16 



182 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Connecticut hath wreathed it 
Where her quiet foliage waves, 

And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart. 
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 

Doth seal the sacred trust; — 
Your mountains build their monument. 

Though ye destroy the dust. 



EXERCISE XIV. 

THE WHITE FAWN. 

[The incidents of this song are taken from a romantic Indian legend, in 
connection with a beautiful scene on Banvard's great picture of the Mississippi 
River, called the " Seat of the White Fawn," and recited by Mr. B. in expla- 
nation of the view.] 

The skies were all clouded, and dark was the day, 

When the warriors met in battle array : 

All painted, all plumed, the war-chant they sung, 

Till the rocks and the bluffs their echoes had rung. 

The eagle, alarmed, from its eyrie took flight, 

Soaring high in the heavens, was lost to the sight. 

Now, lo ! by the brink of the river appears 

Their treacherous foe with their bows and their spears ; — 

Then quick from their covert, with faith in their might, 

The brave Kansas spring to their deadliest fight ! 

'Twas the last time they met — though their numbers were 

few, 
Yet each was a brave that was steady and true. 
And bravely they fought, till the battle's dread sound 
Only ceased as the warriors' last brave bit the ground. 

Now high o'er the cliffs the White Fawn has hied ; — 
The pride of her father — the chief of the tribe ; 
She ascends the tall rocks, and there views the fight, 
Till the last of her tribe was slain in her sight ! 
That last was her lover — and he was to wed 
That beautiful White Fawn — but now he lies dead ! 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 183 

The sun now declines, and her foes disappear : — 
The White Fawn remains, yet she sheds not a tear ; 
And there lonely she sits, from morning till night, 
Until her sad spirit from earth takes its flight : 
Her bones there remain, which are whitened by time, 
And among them now blooms the wild creeping vine. 
At eve, on that rock, when the dews glisten bright 
From the beams of the stars that glow in the night, 
Her spirit is seen, as if watching the dell 
Where the last of her tribe — her brave lover fell! 



EXERCISE XV. 

THE POOR AND THE RICH. 

The rich man's son inherits lands, 
And piles of brick and stone and gold, 
And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One would not care to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares. 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 

Some breath may burst his bubble shares, 

And soft white hands would scarcely earn 

A living that would suit his turn ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One would not care to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man's son inherit ? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 

King of two hands, he does his part 

In every useful toil and art ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man's son inherit ? 

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, 

Content that from enjoyment springs, 

A heart that in his labor sings ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 



184 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

What does the poor man's son inherit ? 

A patience learned by being poor, 

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it; 

A fellow feeling that is sure 

To make the outcast bless his door ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

Oh, rich man's son, there is a toil 
That with all others level stands ; 
Large charity doth never soil, 
But only whitens, soft white hands; 
This is the best crop from thy lands ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Worth being rich, to hold in fee. 

Oh, poor man's son, scorn not thy state ! 
There is worse weariness than thine, — 
In being merely rich and great ; 
Work only makes the soul to shine, 
And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both heirs to some six feet of sod, 
Are equal in the earth at last — 
Both, children of the same dear God. 
Prove title to your heirship vast, 
By record of a well-filled past ! 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Well worth a life to hold in fee. 



EXERCISE XVI. 

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast ; 

And the woods, against a stormy sky, 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 185 

Not as the conquerors come, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring- drum, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear : 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of- the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest, by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared : 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amid that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? — 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 

Ay, call it holy ground, — 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God ! 
16* 



186 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XVII. 
LIGHT FOR ALL. 

You cannot pay with money 

The million sons of toil — 
The sailor on the ocean, 

The peasant on the soil, 
The laborer in the quarry, 

The heaver of the coal ; 
Your money pays the hand, 

But it cannot pay the soul. 

You gaze oh the cathedral, 

"Whose turrets meet the sky ; 
Remember the foundations 

That in earth and darkness lie ; 
For, were not these foundations 

So darkly resting here, 
Yon towers could never soar up 

So proudly in the air. 

The work-shop must be crowded, 

That the palace may be bright ; 
If the ploughman did not plough, 

Then the poet could not write. 
Then let every toil be hallowed 

That man performs for man, 
And have its share of honor, 

As a part of one great plan. 

See, light darts down from heaven, 

And enters where it may ; 
The eyes of all earth's people 

Are cheered with one bright day. 
And let the mind's true sunshine 

Be spread o'er earth so free, 
And fill the souls of men 

As the waters fill the sea. 

The man who turns the soil 

Need not have an earthly mind ; 

The digger 'mid the coal 
Need not be in spirit blind ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 187 

The mind can shed a light 

On each worthy labor done, 
As lowest things are bright 

In the radiance of the sun. 

What cheers the musing student, 

The poet, the divine ? 
The thought that for his followers 

A brighter day will shine. 
Let every human laborer 

Enjoy the vision bright — 
Let the thought that comes from heaven 

Be spread like heaven's own light ! 

Ye men who hold the pen, 

Rise like a band inspired ! 
And poets, let your lyres 

With hope for man be fired ! 
Till the earth becomes a temple, 

And every human heart 
Shall join in one great service, 

Each happy in his part. 



EXERCISE XVIII. 

TO THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure, celestial white 
With streakings from the morning light ! 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumping loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 



188 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

When strides the warrior of the storm, 

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven ! 
Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given 

To guard the banner of the free — 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
The harbinger of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet's tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on ; 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy meteor glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war -and vengeance from the glance ! 
And when the cannon's mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall, 
Like shoots of flame on midnight pall ! — 
There shall thy victor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall fall beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death ! 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean's wave, 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave. 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the swelling sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's only home, 
By angel hands to valor given ! 

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome 
And all thy hues were born in heaven ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 189 

Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And freedom's banner streaming o'er us. 



EXERCISE XIX. 

NAPOLEON AT REST. 

His falchion flashed along the Nile ; 

His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; 
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, 

His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ! Not one, 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Bends o'er his dust; — nor wife nor son 
Has ever seen or sought his grave. 

Behind this sea-girt rock, the star, 

That led him on from crown to crown, 

Has sunk ; and nations from afar 
Gazed as it faded and went down. 

High is his couch; — the ocean flood, 
Far, far below, by storms is curled ; 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
A stormy and unstable world. 

Alone he sleeps ! The mountain cloud, 

That night hangs round him, and the breath 

Of morning scatters, is the shroud 

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. 

Pause here ! The far-off world, at last, 

Breathes free ; the hand that shook its thrones 

And to the earth its mitres cast, 

Lies powerless now beneath these stones. 

Hark ! comes there, from the pyramids, 
And from Siberian wastes of snow, 

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids 

The world he awed to mourn him ? — No ; — 



190 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

The only, the perpetual dirge, 

That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry, — 
The mournful murmur of the surge, — 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 



EXERCISE XX. 

THE THREE BLACK CROWS. 

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, 
One took the other, briskly, by the hand ; 

" Hark ye," said he ; " 'tis an odd story this, 
About the crows !" — " I don't know what it is," 
Replied his friend. — " No ! I 'm surprised at that ; 
Where I come from, it is the common chat : 
But you shall hear ; an odd affair indeed ! 
And that it happened, they are all agreed. 
Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, 
This Aveek, in short, as all the alley knows, 
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." 

" Impossible !" — " Nay, but 't is really true ; 
I had it from good hands, and so may you." 

" From whose, I pray?" So having named the man, 
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. 

" Sir, did you tell" — relating the affair — 

" Yes, sir, I did ; and, if it 's worth your care, 
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me ; 
But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." 
Resolved, to trace so wondrous an event, 
Whip to the third the virtuoso went. 

" Sir," — and so forth — " Why, yes ; the thing is fact, 
Though in regard to number not exact ; 
It was not two black crows, 't was only one ; 
The truth of that you "may depend upon. 
The gentleman himself told me the case." 

" Where may I find him ?" — " Why, in such a place." 
Away he goes, and having found him out, — 

" Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." 
Then to his last informant he referred, 
And begged to know if true what he had heard. 

" Did you, sir, throw up a black crow ?" — " Not I !" 

" Bless me ! how people propagate a lie ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 191 

Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, 
And here I find all comes at last to none ! 
Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?" 
Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now I recall 
The matter over." — " And pray, sir, what was 't?" 
Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, 
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, 
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." 



EXERCISE XXI. 

CONTENTED JOHN. 

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, 
Although he was poor, did not want to be richer ; 
For all such vain wishes to him were prevented, 
By a fortunate habit of being contented. 

Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food, 
John never was found in a murmuring mood ; 
For this he was constantly heard to declare — 
What he could not prevent, he would cheerfully bear. 

For why should I grumble and murmur? he said ; 
If I cannot get meat, I can surely get bread ; 
And though fretting may make my calamities deeper, 
It never can cause bread and cheese to be cheaper. 

If John was afflicted with sickness and pain. 
He wished himself better, but did not complain ; 
Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow, 
But said — that he hoped to be better to-morrow. 

If any one wronged him, or treated him ill, 

Why John was good-natured and sociable still ; 

For he said — that revenging the injury done 

Would be making two rogues, when there need be but one. 

And thus, honest John, though his station was humble, 
Passed through this sad world without even a grumble ; 
And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, 
Would copy John/ Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. 



192 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



EXERCISE XXII. 
AN ACRE OF CORN. 

I am a poor ploughman, who never have wandered 

Away from the sight and the pleasures of home ; 
I have always been prudent, and never have squandered, 

And so I have never been driven to roam. 
For thirty long summers my shoulders have bended 

In tilling the farm where my father was born ; 
I live under his roof, and this season have tended, 

With the plough that he left me, an acre of corn. 

Though others may go to the southward and peddle, 

And bring home of guineas and dollars good store, 
I ne'er have desired with their crankums to meddle, 

But to hoe in my garden that lies by my door. 
When the sun is first rising, I always am hoeing 

The mould, wheu 'tis wet with the dews of the morn ; 
And when he is higher, you will find me a mowing, 

Or driving the plough in my acre of corn. 

There are some who are crossing, by sea to the island, 

They call Santa Cruz, with their horses and hay ; 
For my part, I 'd rather be safe here on dry land, 

And hoe in my garden, or work by the day. 
I am out to the field with the sun, and am mowing 

Till called up at noon by the sound of the horn ; 
Or else I am twirling my hoe, and am throwing 

The mould round the roots of my acre of corn. 

This corn is the sort that is tufted and bowing, 

And when we have threshed it, 't is made into brooms ; 
'T is the best of all besoms, so far as I 'm knowing, 

To sweep out the dirt and the dust from our rooms : 
They always have raised it, since I can remember, 

And, my father once told me, before I was born 
He made brooms for his trade, and I guess by December 

I shall make up a load from my acre of corn. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 193 

EXERCISE XXIII. 
THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm chair ! 

I have treasured it long as a holy prize, 

I 've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs ; 

'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would you learn the spell ? A mother sat there, 

And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat, with listening ear ; 

And gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day, 

When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, 

And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped — 

My idol was shattered, my earth star fled ; 

I learnt how much the heart can bear, 

When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 

'T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow, — 
'T was there she nursed me, 'twas there she died; 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
While the scalding tears start down my cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm chair. 
17 



194 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XXIV. 
THE POOR MAN'S HYMN. 

Why for a hoard of gold should I, 
Like yonder squalid miser, care — 

Or for the purple vestments sigh, 

That sting the monarch's soul with care ? 

Can the mean pittance of their gems, 
Their stately ships that ride the sea, 

Their sceptres, or their diadems, 
Add, or take aught away from me ? 

These are my wants — a simple scroll, 
My food, my raiment, and a hearth ; 

Where, with the chosen of my soul, 
I proudly rise above the earth ! 

There are my riches — in the vales ; 

The hill-sides, too, are gemmed with gold — 
And whispering angels on the gales 

Bring all that 's needful to my fold. 

This is my fold — the heart within, 

Where answering smiles, that meet my own, 

Are gifts I need not thirst to win, 

And, won, are worthier than a throne ! 

The miser is a drudge, a slave ! 

Who never can his task fulfil ; 
He nobly free, who does not crave 

To weave a living web of ill ! 

Not while the azure sky is bright 
And sparkling whither way I turn, 

While all the earth is robed in light 
From rays that heaven reflected burn ; 

Not while these flowers perpetual spring 
Beneath the dew drop and the sun, 

Would I exchange with haughtiest king, 
Or ask the crown that crime has won ! 

No ! for enough is all I care 

To delve or sorrow as I go, 
And I would always hope to share 

That little with the loved below. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 195 

Kings to the dust their heads must bow, 
When life ebbs out 'mid grief and pain ; 

I tear no jewels from my brow, 

Nor weep to meet mine own again ! 



EXERCISE XXV. 



[The following lines were suggested by the simple incident of an industrious 
wood-sawyer's reply to a man who told him his was hard work : " Yes, it is 
hard, to be sure ; but it is harder to do nothing," was his answer.] 

Ho, ye who at the anvil toil, 

And strike the sounding blow, 
Where, from the burning iron's breast, 

The sparks fly to and fro, 
While answering to the hammer's ring, 

And fire's intenser glow ! — 
O, while ye feel 't is hard to toil 

And sweat the long day through, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho, ye who till the stubborn soil, 

Whose hard hands guide the plough, 
Who bend beneath the summer's sun, 

With burning cheeks and brow! — 
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth 

From olden time till now ; 
But while ye feel 't is hard to toil 

And labor all day through, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho, ye who plough the sea's blue field, 

Who ride the restless wave, 
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel 

There lies a yawning grave, 
Around whose bark the wintry winds 

Like fiends of fury rave ! — 
O, while ye feel 't is hard to toil 

And labor long hours through, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 



196 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ho, ye upon whose fevered cheeks 

The hectic glow is "bright, 
Whose mental toil wears out the day, 

And half the weary night, 
"Who labor for the souls of men, 

Champions of truth and right ! — 
Although ye feel your toil is hard, 

Even with this glorious view, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho, all who labor — all who strive ! — 

Ye wield a lofty power ; 
Do with your might, do with your strength, 

Fill every golden hour ! 
The glorious privilege to do 

Is man's most noble power. 
Oh, to your birthright and yourselves, 

To your own souls, be true ! 
A weary, wretched life is theirs, 

Who have no work to do. 



EXERCISE XXVI. 
THE CROP OF ACORNS. 

There came a man, in days of old, 
To hire a piece of land for gold, 
And urged his suit in accents meek, 
One crop, alone, is all I seek ; 
That harvest o'er, my claim I '11 yield, 
And to its lord resign the field." 

The owner some misgivings felt, 
And coldly with the stranger dealt, 
But found his last objection fail, 
And honied eloquence prevail ; 
So took the proffered price in hand, 
And for one crop leased out the land. 

The wily tenant sneered with pride, 
And sowed the spot with acorns wide ; 
At first, like tiny shoots they grew, 
Then broad and wide their branches threw 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 197 

But long before those oaks sublime, 
Aspiring, reached their forest prime, 
The cheated landlord mouldering lay, 
Forgotten, with his kindred clay. 

Oh ye, whose years, unfolding fair, 

Are fresh with youth, and free from care, 

Should Vice or Indolence desire 

The garden of your soul to hire, 

No parley hold, reject their suit, 

Nor let one seed the soil pollute ! 

My child, their first approach beware ; 
With firmness break the insidious snare, 
Lest, as the acorns grew and throve 
Into a sun-excluding grove, 
Thy sins, a dark, o'ershadowing tree, 
Shut out the light of heaven from thee. 



EXERCISE XXVII. 

LINES FOR AN EXHIBITION. 

Kind friends and dear parents, we welcome you here, 
To our nice pleasant schoolroom, and teachers so dear ; 
We wish but to show you how much we have learned, 
And how to our lessons our hearts have been turned. 

But we hope you '11 remember we all are quite young, 
And when we have spoken, recited, and sung, 
You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are aware, 
May even extend to the President's chair. 

We seek your approval with hearty good will, 
And hope the good lessons our teachers instil 
May make us submissive, and gentle, and kind, 
As well as enlighten and strengthen the mind. 

For learning, we know, is more precious than gold, 
But the worth of the heart's jewels ne'er can be told ; 
We '11 strive, then, for virtue, truth, honor, and love, 
And thus lay up treasures in mansions above. 

17* 



198 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Our life is a school-time, and till that shall end, 
With our Father in heaven for teacher and friend, 
Oh, let us perform well each task that is given, 
Till our time of probation is ended in heaven. 



EXERCISE XXVni. 

OUR COUNTRY. 

Our country! — 'tis a glorious land, 

"With broad arms stretched from shore to shore : 
The proud Pacific chafes her strand, 

She hears the dark Atlantic roar ; 
And, nurtured on her ample breast, 

How many a goodly prospect lies, 
In Nature's wildest grandeur drest, 

Enamelled with her loveliest dyes ! 

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold, 

Like sunlit oceans roll afar ; 
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold, 

Reflecting clear each trembling star ; 
And mighty rivers, mountain-born, 

Go sweeping onward, dark and deep, 
Through forests where the bounding fawn 

Beneath their sheltering branches leap. 

And, cradled mid her clustering hills, 

Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide, 
Where love the air with music fills, 

And calm content and peace abide ; 
For plenty here her fulness pours, 

In rich profusion, o'er the land, 
And, sent to seize her generous store, 

There prowls no tyrant's hireling band. 

Great God ! we thank thee for this home — 

This bounteous birth-land of the free ; 
Where wanderers from afar may come, 

And breathe the air of liberty ! — 
Still may her flowers untrampled spring, 

Her harvests wave, her cities rise ; 
And yet, till time shall fold her wing, 

Remain earth's loveliest paradise ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 199 

EXERCISE XXIX. 
THE NEW ENGLANDER AMONG THE ALPS. 

Alps above Alps around me rise, 
Lost in the very depths of air, 
And stand between the earth and skies, 
In calm, majestic grandeur there. 
Stupendous heights, by man untrod ! 
Types of the mighty power of God ! 
Here stand ye, as ye stood, when first 
Your splendor out of chaos burst ; 
Here have you reared your giant forms, 
From age to age, 'mid desolating storms. 

Now glaciers stretch beneath my feet, 

Lost in the cloudy air below, 

By arrowy hail and tempests beat, 

And covered with eternal snow ; 

The chamois and the mountain deer 

Can hardly find a shelter here ; 

The eagle can scarce build her nest 

Upon thy cold and icy breast ; 

All, all is still. There breathes no sound : — 

Thy frozen cliffs are wrapped in solitude profound. 

Oh, solemn scene ! majestic ! vast ! 

Here will you ever stand, as now, 

Omnipotence around you cast, 

And God's own seal upon your brow ! — 

Below, a thousand torrents lie ; 

Above, thy summits pierce the sky, 

Sparkling before the astonished sight 

Like pyramids of frozen light. ' 

Here, e'en as now, in strength sublime, 

The ice-clad cliffs shall stand throughout all coming time. 

But while I on these mountains stand, 

And while my heart with wonder thrills, 

Shall I forget my native land ? 

My own New England hills ? 

No, no ! there 's not a spot on earth 

Like that blest land that gave me birth ; 

And even now, before my eyes 

Her rivers roll, — her green hills rise, — 

Her wild flowers bloom ! Thus bright and free, 

My own New England home, my native land for me ! 



200 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



EXERCISE XXX. 
THE DILATORY SCHOLAR. 

Oh ! where is my hat ? — it is taken away, 

And my shoestrings are all in a knot ! 
I can't find a thing where it should be to-day, 

Though I 've hunted in every spot. 

My slate and my pencil nowhere can be found, 
Though I placed them as safe as could be ; 

While my books and my maps are all scattered around, 
And hop about just like a flea. 

Do, Eachel, just look for my Atlas, up stairs ; 

My Virgil is somewhere there, too ; 
And, sister, brush down these troublesome hairs, — 

And, brother, just fasten my shoe. 

And, mother, beg father to write an excuse ; 

But stop, — he will only say " No," 
And go on with a smile, and keep reading the news, 

While everything bothers me so. 

My satchel is heavy and ready to fall ; 

This old pop-gun is breaking my map; 
I '11 have nothing to do with the pop-gun or ball, — 

There 's no playing for such a poor chap ! 

The town clock will strike in a minute, I fear ; 

Then away to the fort I must sink : — 
There, look at my History, tumbled down here ! 

And my Algebra, covered with ink ! 

I wish I 'd not lingered at breakfast the last, 
Though the toast and the butter were fine ; 

I think that our Edward must eat very fast, 
To be off when I haven't done mine. 

Now, Edward and Henry protest they won't wait, 
And beat on the door with their sticks ; 

I suppose they will say I was dressing too late ; 
To-morrow I '11 be up at six. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 201 

EXERCISE XXXI. 
A NAME IN THE SAND. 

Alone I walked the ocean strand ; 
A pearly shell was in my hand : 
1 stooped and wrote upon the sand 

My name — the year — the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind I cast : 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, 't will shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me ; 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 

Will sweep across the place ; 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been, to be no more, 
Of me — my day — the name I bore — 

To leave nor track nor trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name, 
Of all this mortal part has wrought ; 
Of all this thinking soul has thought ; 
And from these fleeting moments caught 

For glory, or for shame. 



EXERCISE XXXII. 

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, 

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, — 
The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; 

The point in dispute was, all the world knows, 
To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 

So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning 

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 



202 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 

That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
Which amounts to possession, time out of mind. 

Then, holding the spectacles up to the court — 

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, 

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 

('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) 

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 

Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then? 

On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 

Then, shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 

But what were his arguments few people know, 
For the court did not think they were equally wise. 

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 

That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 

By day-light or candle-light — Eyes should be shut. 



EXERCISE XXXIII. 
PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE. 

Away ! away ! I will not hear 

Of aught but death or vengeance now ! 
By the eternal skies, I ne'er 

The willing knee will cause to bow ! 
I will not hear a word of peace, 

Nor grasp, in friendly grasp, a hand 
Linked to the pale-browed stranger race, 

That work the ruin of our land ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Before their coming, we had ranged 

Our forests and our uplands, free ; 
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged, 

The heritage of liberty ! 
As free as rolls the chainless stream, 

Still let us roam our ancient woods ! 
As free as break the morning beams, 

That light our mountain solitudes ! 

Touch not the hand they stretch to you ! 

The falsely proffered cup, put by ! — 
Will you believe a coward true ? 

Or taste the poison-draught, to die ? 
Their friendship is a lurking snare ; 

Their honor, but an idle breath ; 
Their smile, the smile that traitors wear ; 

Their love is hate, their life is death ! 

Plains which your infant feet have roved, 

Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe, 
Green woods and glens your fathers loved — 

Whom smile they for, if not for you ? 
And could your fathers' spirits look, 

From lands where deathless verdure waves, 
Nor curse the craven hearts that brook 

To barter for a nation's graves ? 

Then raise, once more, the warrior song, 

That tells despair and death are nigh ! 
Let the loud summons peal along, 

Bending the arches of the sky ! 
And till your last white foe shall kneel, 

And in his coward pangs expire — 
Sleep — but to dream of band and steel ! 

Wake — but to deal in blood and fire ! 



EXERCISE XXXIV. 
THE FIELDS OF WAR. 



They rise, by stream and yellow shore, 
By mountain, moor, and fen; 

By weedy rock and torrent hoar, 
And lonesome forest glen ! 



204 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

From many a woody, moss-grown mound, 

Start forth a war-worn band, 
As when, of old, they caught the sound 
Of hostile arms, and closed around, 
To guard their native land. 

Hark ! to the clanging horn ; 

Hark ! to the rolling drum ! 
Arms glitter in the flash of morn, 

The hosts to battle come ! 
The serried files, the plumed troop, 

Are marshalled once again, 
Along the Hudson's mountain group, 

Along the Atlantic main ! 

On Bunker, at the dead of night, 

I seem to view the raging fight, 

The burning town, the smoky height, 

The onset, the retreat ! 
And, down the banks of Brandywine, 
I see the levelled bayonets shine ; 
And lurid clouds of battle twine, 

Where struggling columns meet ! 

Yorktown and Trenton blaze once more ! 
And by the Delaware's frozen shore, 
The hostile guns at midnight roar, 

The hostile shouts arise ! 
The snows of Valley-Forge grow red, 
And Saratoga's field is spread 
With heaps of undistinguished dead, 

And filled with dying cries ! 

'T is o'er ; the battle-shout has died 
By ocean, stream, and mountain side ; 
And the bright harvest, far and wide, 

Waves o'er the blood-drenched field ; 
The rank grass o'er it greenly grows, 
And oft the upturning shares disclose 
The buried arms and bones of those 

Who fell, but would not yield ! 

Time's roiling chariot hath effaced 
The very hillocks where were placed 
The bodies of the dead, in haste, 

When closed the furious fioht. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 205 

The ancient fort and rampart-mound 
Long since have settled to the ground, 

On Bunker's famous height, 
And the last relics of the brave 
Are sinking to oblivion's grave ! 



EXERCISE XXXV. 
THE PILGRIMS. 

Across the rolling ocean, 

Our Pilgrim Fathers came, 
And here, in rapt devotion, 

Adored their Maker's name. 
Amid New England's mountains, 

Their temple sites they chose, 
And by its streams and fountains 

The choral song arose. 

Their hearts with freedom burning, 

They felled the forests wide, 
And reared the halls of learning — 

New England's joy and pride ; 
Through scenes of toil and sadness 

In faith they struggled on, 
That future days of gladness 

And glory might be won. 

The men of noble spirit, 

The Pilgrims, are at rest — 
The treasures we inherit 

Proclaim their memory blest ! 
From every valley lowly, 

From mountain tops above, 
Let grateful thoughts, and holy, 

Rise to the God of love. 



EXERCISE XXXVI. 
new England's dead. 

New England's dead ! New England's dead 

On every hill they lie ; 
On every field of strife, made red 

By bloodv victory. 

18 ' 



206 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Each valley, where the battle poured 

Its red and awful tide, 
Beheld the brave New England sword 

With slaughter deeply dyed. 
Their bones are on the northern hill, 

And on the southern plain, 
By brook and river, lake and rill, 

And by the roaring main. 

The land is holy where they fought, 

And holy where they fell ; 
For by their blood that land was bought, 

The land they loved so well. 
Then glory to that valiant band, 
The honored saviors of the land ! 
Oh ! few and weak their numbers were, — 

A handful of brave men ; 
But to their God they gave their prayer, 

And rushed to battle then. 
The God of battles beard their cry, 
And sent to them the victory. 

They left the ploughshare in the mould, 
Their flocks and herds without a fold, 
The sickle in the unshorn grain, 
The corn, half garnered, on the plain, 
And mustered, in their simple dress, 
For wrongs to seek a stern redress ; 
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, 
To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 

And where are ye, fearless men ? 

And where are ye to-day ? 
I call : — the hills reply again 

That ye have passed away ; 
That on old Bunker's lonely height, 

In Trenton and in Monmouth ground, 
The grass grows green, the harvest bright, 

Above each soldier's mound ! 

The bugle's wild and warlike blast 

Shall muster them no more ; 
An army now might thunder past, 

And they heed not its roar. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 207 

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, 

In many a bloody day, 
From their old graves shall rouse them not, 
For they have passed away. 



EXERCISE XXXVII. 
THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 

I saw him on the battle-eve, 
When like king he bore him ; 

Proud hosts, in glittering helm and greave, 
And prouder chiefs, before him : 

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, — 
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — 

No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; 

He looked around him, and his eye 

Defiance flashed to earth and sky. 

He looked on ocean ; its broad breast 

Was covered with his fleet ; — 
On earth ; and saw, from east to west, 

His bannered millions meet ; — 
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, 
Shook with the war-cry of that host, 

The thunder of their feet ! 
He heard the imperial echoes ring, — 
He heard, and felt himself a king. 

I saw him next, alone : — nor camp, 

Nor chief, his steps attended ; 
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp 

With war-cries proudly blended. 
He stood alone, whom Fortune high 
So lately seemed to deify ; 

He, who with Heaven contended, 
Fled like a fugitive and slave ! 
Behind, — the foe ; — before, — the wave. 

He stood, — fleet, army, treasure, — gone,- 

Alone and in despair ! 
But wave and wind swept ruthless on, 

For they were monarchs there ; 



208 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And Xerxes, in a single bark, 

"Where late his thousand ships were dark, 

Must all their fury dare ; 
What a revenge — a trophy, this — 
For thee, immortal Salamis ! 



EXERCISE XXXVIII. 
A CENTENNIAL HYMN. 

Two hundred years ! — two hundred years ! - 
How much of human power and pride, 

What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, 
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! — 

The red man, at his horrid rite, 

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, 

His bark canoe, its track of light 

Left on the wave beneath the moon, — 

His dance, his yell, his council-fire, 

The altar where his victim lay, 
His death-song, and his funeral pyre, — 

That still, strong tide hath borne away. 

And that pale pilgrim band is gone, 

That, on this shore, with trembling, trod, 

Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
The ark of freedom and of God. 

And war — that, since, o'er ocean came, 
And thundered loud from yonder hill, 

And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame, 
To blast that ark — its storm is still. 

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, 

That live in story and in song, 
Time, for the last two hundred years, 

Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 

'T is like a dream when one awakes — 
This vision of the scenes of old : 

5 T is like the moon when morning breaks, 
'T is like a tale round watch-fires told. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 209 

Then what are we ? — then what are we ? 

Yes, when two hundred years have rolled 
O'er our green graves, our names shall be 

A morning dream, a tale that 's told. 

God of our fathers, — in whose sight 

The thousand years that sweep away 
Man, and the traces of his might, 

Are but the break and close of day, — 

Grant us that love of truth sublime, 

That love of goodness and of thee, 
Which makes thy children, in all time, 

To share thine own Eternity ! 



EXERCISE XXXLS. 
YANKEE SHIPS, 

Our Yankee ships ! in fleet career, 

They linger not behind, 
Where gallant sails from other lands 

Court favoring tide and wind. 
With banners on the breeze, they leap 

As gaily o'er the foam 
As stately barks from prouder seas, 

That long have learned to roam. 

The Indian wave, with luring smiles, 

Swept round them bright to-day ; 
And havens of Atlantic isles 

Are opening on their way ; 
Ere yet these evening shadows close, 

Or this frail song is o'er, 
Full many a straining mast will rise 

To greet a foreign shore. 

High up the lashing northern deep, 

Where glimmering watch-lights beam, 
Away in beauty where the stars 

In tropic brightness gleam ; 
Where'er the sea-bird wets her beak, 

Or blows the stormy gale ; 
On to the water's farthest verge 

Our ships majestic sail. 
18* 



210 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

They dip their keels in every stream 

That swells beneath the sky ; 
And where old ocean's billows roll 

Their lofty pennants fly : 
They furl their sheets in threatening clouds 

That float across the main, 
To link with love earth's distant bays, 

In many a golden chain. 



EXERCISE XL. 

PLEA FOR THE RED MAN. 

I venerate the Pilgrim's cause, 

Yet for the Red Man dare to plead : 
We bow to Heaven's written laws, 

He turned to nature for a creed ; 

Beneath the pillared dome, 
We seek our God in prayer ; 

Through boundless woods he loved to roam, 
And the Great Spirit worshipped there. 
But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt; 
To one divinity with us he knelt ; 
Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore, 
Bade him defend his violated shore. 

He saw the cloud ordained to grow, 

And burst upon his hills in woe ; 

He saw his people withering by, 

Beneath the invader's evil eye ; 
Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones 

At midnight hour he woke to gaze 

Upon his happy cabin's blaze, 
And listen to his children's dying groans. 

He saw, and, maddening at the sight, 

Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; 

To tiger rage his soul was driven ; 

Mercy was not, — nor sought nor given; 

The pale man from his lands must fly; 

He would be free, or he would die. 

And was this savage ? Say, 

Ye ancient few, 

Who struggled through 
Young Freedom's trial day, — 



RICAN SPEAKER. 211 

What first your sleeping wrath awoke ? 
On your own shores war's 'larum broke : 
What turned to gall e'en kindred blood ? 
Round your own homes the oppressor stood : 
This every warm affection chilled ; 
This every heart with vengeance thrilled, 
And strengthened every hand ; 
From mound to mound 
The word went round — 
" Death for our native land!" 



Alas for them ! their day is o'er ; 
Their fires are out from hill and shore ; 
No more for them the wild deer bounds ; 
The plough is on their hunting-grounds ; 
The pale man's axe rings through their woods 
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods ; 

Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
Their children — look ! by power oppressed, 
Beyond the mountains of the west, 

Their children go — to die ! 
* # # # * 

But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace, 
To save his own, or serve another race; 
With his frail breath his power has passed away ; 
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay ; 

Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page, 

Shall link him to a future age, 

Or give him with the past a rank ; 
His heraldry is but a broken bow, 
His history but a tale of wrong and woe ; 

His very name must be a blank. 

Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ; 

O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; 
No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, 
To bless his coming, and embalm his end ; 
E'en that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue ; 
By foes alone his death-song must be sung ; 

No chronicles but theirs shall tell 
His mournful doom to future times : 

May these upon his virtues dwell, 
And in his fate forget his crimes ! 



212 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XL1. 

A SCENE IN A PRIVATE MAD-HOUSE. 

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 

She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
For what I 'm now too well I know, 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I '11 rave no more in proud despair ; 

My language shall be mild, though sad : 
But yet I '11 firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

My tyrant husband forged the tale 

Which chains me in this dismal cell; 
My fate unknown my friends bewail ; 

Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 
Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer ! 

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad 
To know, though kept a captive here, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; 

He quits the grate ; — I knelt in vain ; 
His glimmering lamp still, still I see — 

'Tis gone, and all is gloom again. 
Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Yet here I 'm chained this freezing night, 

Although not mad ! no, no, not mad ! 

'T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; 

What! I — the child of rank and wealth, 
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, 

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, 

Which never more my heart must glad, 
How aches my heart, how burns my head ! 

But 'tis not madj no, 'tis not mad! 

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? 

She '11 ne'er forget your parting kiss, 

Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 213 

Nor how with me you sued to stay ; 

Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
Nor how 1 '11 drive such thoughts away ; 

They '11 make me mad ! they '11 make me mad ! 

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
None ever bore a lovelier child: — 

And art thou now forever gone? 
And must I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I will be free ! unbar the door ! 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? 

His chain some furious madman breaks ; 
He comes, — I see his glaring eyes! 

Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes ! 
Help ! help ! — He 's gone ! — Oh ! fearful woe, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 
My brain, my brain ! — I know, I know, 

I am not mad, but soon shall be ! 

Yes, soon; — for, lo you ! — while I speak — 

Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare ! 
He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, 

He whirls a serpent high in air ! 
Horror! — the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
Ay, laugh, ye fiends ! — I feel the truth ; 

Your task is done ! — I 'm mad ! I 'm mad ! 



EXERCISE XLII. 

" EXCELSIOR." 

The shades of night were falling fast. 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior!" 

His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath 



214 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
" Excelsior !" 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Try not the pass ! " the old man said ; 

" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " — 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Oh ! stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " — 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; — 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
" Excelsior ! " 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
" Excelsior ! " 

A traveller, — by the faithful hound, 
Half buried in the snow, was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior!" 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, — 
" Excelsior ! " 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 215 

EXERCISE XLIII. 
THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 

Up to the strife with care ; 

Be thine an oaken heart ! 
Life's daily contest nobly share, 

Nor act a craven part ! 
Give murmurs to the coward throng, — 
Be thine the joyous notes of song ! 

If thrown upon the field, 

Up to the task once more ! 
'T is worse than infamy to yield, 

'T is childish to deplore : 
Look stern misfortune in the eye, 
And breast the billow manfully ! 

Close in with every foe, 

As thickly on they come ! 
They can but lay the body low, 

And send thy spirit home : — 
Yet may'st thou stout it out, and view 
What giant energy can do. 

Soon shall the combat cease, 

The struggle fierce and long, 
And thine be true, unbroken peace, 

And thine the victor's song : — 
Beyond the cloud, will wait for thee, 
The wreath of immortality. 



EXERCISE XLIV. 
THE MARINERS. 

How cheery are the mariners, — 

Those lovers of the sea ! 
Their hearts are like its yesty waves, 

As bounding and as free. 
They whistle when the storm-bird wheels, 

In circles, round the mast ; ■ 
And singj when, deep in foam, the ship 

Ploughs onward to the blast. 



216 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

What care the mariners for gales ? 

There 's music in their roar, 
When wide the berth along the lee, 

And leagues of room before. 
Let billows toss to mountain heights, 

Or sink to chasms low ; 
The vessel stout will ride it out, 

Nor reel beneath the blow. 

With streamers down, and canvass furled, 

The gallant hull will float 
Securely, as on inland lake 

A silken-tasselled boat ; 
And sound asleep some mariners, 

And some with watchful eyes, 
Will fearless be of dangers dark, 

That roll along the skies. 

God keep these cheery mariners ! 

And temper all the gales, 
That sweep against the rocky coast, 

To their storm-shattered sails ; 
And men on shore will bless the ship 

That could so guided be, 
Safe in the hollow of His hand, 

To brave the mighty sea ! 



EXERCISE XLV. 
PLEA OF THE INDIAN. 

Oh ! why should the white man hang on my path, 

Like the hound on the tiger's track ? 
Does the flesh of my dark cheek waken his wrath? 

Does he covet the bow at my back ? 

He has rivers and seas, where the billow and breeze 

Bear riches for him alone ; 
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood 

That the white man calls his own. 

Then why should he covet the streams where none 

But the red skin dare to swim ? 
Oh ! why should he wrong the hunter, one 

Who never did harm to him ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 217 

The Father above thought fit to give 

To the white man corn and wine ; 
There are golden fields where he may live — 

But the forest wilds are mine. 

The eagle has its place of rest — 

The wild horse where to dwell ; 
And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest 

Gave me a home as well. 

Then back, go back, from the Red Man's track ! 

For the hunter's eye grows dim, 
To see that the white man wrongs the one 

Who never did harm to him. 



EXERCISE XLVI. 
THE REMOVAL. 

A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade, 
By which, though — it seems — he a fortune had made, 
Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, 
Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down. 

This thought struck his mind, when he viewed the estate ; 
But alas ! when he entered he found it too late ; 
For in each dwelt a smith : — a more hard-working two 
Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe. 

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work, 
Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk ; 
These fellows," he cried, " such a clattering keep, 
That I never can get above eight hours of sleep." 

From morning till night they keep thumping away ; 
No sound but the anvil the whole of the day ; 
His afternoon's nap, and his daughter's new song, 
Were banished and spoiled by their hammers' ding-dong. 

He offered each vulcan to purchase his shop ; 
But no ! they were stubborn, determined to stop : 
At length, (both his spirits and health to improve,) 
He cried, " I '11 give each fifty guineas to move." 

19 



218 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Agreed ! " said the pair; " that will make us amends." 
" Then come to my house, and let us part friends ; 
You shall dine ; and we '11 drink on this joyful occasion, 
That each may live long in his new habitation." 

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale, — 
He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale ; 
So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest 
Would take from him noise, and restore to him rest. 

" And now," said he, " tell me, where mean you to move? — 

I hope to some spot where your trade will improve ! " 
" Why, sir," replied one, with a grin on his phiz, 
" Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his ! " 



EXERCISE XLVII. 

THE COLD-WATER MAN. 

There lived an honest fisherman — 
I knew him passing well — 

Who dwelt hard by a little pond, 
Within a little dell. 

A grave and quiet man was he, 
Who loved his hook and rod ; 

So even ran his line of life, 
His neighbors thought it odd. 

For science and for books, he said, 

He never had a wish ; 
No school to him was worth a fig, 

Except a " school" of fish. 

This single-minded fisherman 

A double calling had, — 
To tend his flocks in winter-time, 

In summer, fish for shad. 

In short, this honest fisherman 

All other toils forsook ; 
And, though no vagrant man was he r 

He lived by " hook and crook." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 219 

All day that fisherman would sit 

Upon an ancient log, 
And gaze into the water, like 

Some sedentary frog. 

A cunning fisherman was he ; 

His angles all were right ; 
And, when he scratched his aged poll, 

You 'd know he 'd got a bite. 

To charm the fish he never spoke, 

Although his voice was fine ; 
He found the most convenient way 

Was just to "drop a line." 

And many a " gudgeon" of the pond, 

If made to speak to-day, 
Would own, with grief, this angler had 

A mighty " taking way." 

One day, while fishing on the log, 

He mourned his want of luck, — 
When, suddenly, he felt a bite, 

And, jerking — caught a duck! 

Alas ! that day the fisherman 

Had taken too much grog ; 
And being but a landsman, too, 

He couldn't "keep the log." 

In vain he strove with all his might, 

And tried to gain the shore ; — 
Down, down he went, to feed the fish 

He 'd baited oft before ! 

The moral of this mournful tale 

To all is plain and clear : — 
A single " drop too much " of rum 

May make a watery bier. 

And he who will not " sign the pledge," 

And keep his promise fast, 
May be, in spite of fate, a stark 

Cold-water-man at last 



220 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XLVIII. 
THE GRAVE OF THE INDIAN CHIEF. 

They laid the corse of the wild and brave 
On the sweet fresh earth of the new-made grave, 
On the gentle hill, where wild weeds wave, 
And flowers and grass were flourishing. 

They laid within the peaceful bed, 
Close by the Indian chieftain's head, 
His bow and arrows, — and they said 

That he had found new hunting-grounds, 

Where bounteous nature only tills 
The willing soil ; and o'er whose hills, 
And down beside the shady rills, 
The hero roams eternally. 

And these fair isles to the westward lie, 
Beneath a golden sunset sky, 
Where youth and beauty never die, 
And song and dance move endlessly. 

They told of the feats of his dog and gun, 
They told of the deeds his arm had done ; 
They sung of battles lost and won, 
And so they paid his eulogy. 

And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones, 
They raised a simple pile of stones ; 
Which, hallowed by their tears and moans, 
Was all the 'Indian's monument. 

And since the chieftain here has slept, 
Full many a winter's winds have swept, 
And many an age has softly crept, 
Over his humble sepulchre. 



EXERCISE XLLX. 

UNIVERSAL FREEDOM. 



Oppression shall not always reign : 
There comes a brighter day, 

When freedom, burst from every chain, 
Shall have triumphant way. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 221 

Then right shall over might prevail ; 
And truth, like hero armed in mail, 
The hosts of tyrant wrong assail, 
And hold eternal sway. 

Even now, that glorious day draws near, 

Its coming is not far ; 
In earth and heaven its signs appear, 

We see its morning star; 
Its dawn has flushed the eastern sky, 
The western hills reflect it high, 
The southern clouds before it fly ; — 

Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah ! 

It flashes on the Indian isles, 

So long to bondage given ; 
Their faded plains are decked in smiles, 

Their blood-stained fetters riven. 
Eight hundred thousand newly free 
Pour out their songs of jubilee, 
That shake the globe from sea to sea, 

As with a shout from heaven. 

That shout, which every bosom thrills, 

Has crossed the wondering main ; 
It rings in thunder o'er our hills, 

And rolls o'er every plain. 
The waves reply on every shore, 
Old Faneuil echoes to the roar, 
And " rocks" as it ne'er rocked before, 

And ne'er shall rock again. 



EXERCISE L. 

NEW ENGLAND. 

New England's soil, our happy home, 

The land of hardy worth, 
Where plenty crowns the social board, 

And love lights up the hearth ! 
The land of rock, and mount, and glen, 

Of noble streams that sweep 
Through valleys rich in verdure, 

In gladness to the deep ; — 
19* 



222 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Blue are the arching skies above, 
And green the fields below ; 

And autumn fruits and summer flowers 
In wild profusion grow. 

The towering oak and ancient pine 

The noble forests bear ; 
The maple bough its blossoms 

Flings on the scented air ; 
And flock, and herd, and waving grain, 

Each slope and upland crown ; 
And autumn winds from laden bough 

The mellow fruits shake down ; 
The waving wild flower tempts the bee, 

With soft and fragrant sigh ; 
And in tall ranks the glossy maize 

Points upward to the sky. 

No tyrant landlord wrings our soil, 

Or rends its fruit away ; 
The flocks upon our own green hills, 

Secure from plunder, stray. 
No bigot's scourge or martyr's fires 

A barbarous creed fulfil; 
For the spirit of our stern old sires 

Is with their children still. 
And pure to heaven our altars rise, ■ 

Upon a bloodless sod, 
Where man, with free, unfettered faith, 

Bows down and worships God. 

Our homes ! our dear New England homes 

Where sweet affections meet ; 
Where the cool poplar spreads its shade, 

And flowers our senses greet ; 
The lily rears her polished cup, 

The rose as freshly springs, 
And to the sky looks gayly up, 

As in the courts of kings ; 
And the vine that climbs the window 

Hangs drooping from above, 
And sends its grateful odors in, 

With messages of love. 



THE AMEKICAX SPEAKER. 223 

Then hail to thee, New England ! 

Thou cherished land of ours ; 
Our sons are like the granite rocks, 

Our daughters like the flowers. 
We quail to none, of none we crave, 

Nor bend the servile knee ; 
The life-blood that our fathers gave 

Still warms the firm and free. 
Free as our eagle spreads his wings, 

We own no tyrant's rod, 
No master but the King of kings, 

No monarch but our God ! 



EXERCISE LI. 

THE OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood ! 

When fond recollection presents them to view ; 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure — 

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
When, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 

Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 



224 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And now, far removed from that loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 



EXERCISE LII. 

THE THRIVING FAMILY THE STATES. 

Ottr father lives in Washington, 

And has a world of cares, 
But gives his children each a farm, 

Enough for them and theirs ; 
Full thirty well-grown sons has he, — 

A numerous race indeed, 
Married and settled, all, d'ye see, 

With boys and girls to feed. 
And if we wisely till our lands, 

We 're sure to earn a living, 
And have a penny, too, to spare, 

For spending or for giving. 
A thriving family are we, 

No lordling need deride us, 
For we know how to use our hands, 

And in our wits we pride us ; 
Hail, brothers, hail ! 

Let nought on earth divide us. 

Some of us dare the sharp north-east, 

Some, clover-fields are mowing ; 
And others tend the cotton-plants 

That keep the looms a-going. 
Some build and steer the white-winged ships, 

And few in speed can mate them ; — 
While others rear the corn and wheat, 

Or grind the flour, to freight them. 
And if our neighbors o'er the sea 

Have e'er an empty larder, 
To send a loaf their babes to cheer, 

We '11 work a little harder. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 225 

No old nobility have we, 

No tyrant-king to ride us ; 
Our sages in the Capitol 

Enact the laws that guide us. 
Hail, brothers, hail! 

Let nought on earth divide us. 

Some faults we have, — we can't deny 

A foible, here and there ; 
But other households have the same, 

And so, we '11 not despair. 
'T will do no good to fume and frown, 

And call hard names, you see, 
And 't were a burning shame to part 

So fine a family. 
'T is but a waste of time to fret, 

Since nature made us one, 
For every quarrel cuts a thread 

That healthful love has spun. 
So draw the cords of union fast, 

Whatever may betide us, 
And closer cling through every blast, 

For many a storm has tried us. 
Hail, brothers, hail! 

Let nought on earth divide us. 



EXERCISE Lin. 

THE POOR MAN. 

What man is poor ? Not he whose brow 

Is bathed in heaven's own light, 
Whose knee to God alone must bow, 

At morning and at night — 
Whose arm is nerved by healthy toil, 

Who sits beneath the tree, 
Or treads upon the fruitful soil, 

With spirit calm and free. 

Go, — let the proud his gems behold, 
And view their sparkling ray, — 

No silver vase or yellow gold 
Can banish care away — 



226 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He cannot know the thrilling dream, 
Which smiles within the cot, 

Where sunny looks and faces gleam 
To cheer the poor man's lot. 

What man is poor ? Not he whose brow 

Is wet with heaven's own dew, 
Who breathes to God the heart-felt vow, 

Whose pledge is deep and true. 
The morning calls his active feet 

To no enchanting dome, 
But evening, and the twilight sweet, 

Shall light his pathway home. 

There is a music in his ear, 

In the glad voice of his child ; 
His wife with hurried steps draws near, 

And spirit undefiled — 
Then turn not from the humble heart, 

Nor scorn its cheerful tone, 
For deeper feelings there may start 

Than the proud have ever known. 



EXERCISE LIV. 
THE VOICE OF LOVE. 

Oh ! never speak with angry tone 
To one within this erring world ! 

Let no vindictive look be shown, 
Nor be thy lip with passion curled ! 

For man at best is frail as dust, 

And God alone is truly just. 

Be kind to all, and thus fulfil 
The first great duty here below ; 

Let words of love their hearts distil, 
To mitigate thy brother's woe : 

For though in pride and guilt he swells, 

His heart its own deep anguish tells. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 227 

In the deep chambers of the soul, 

To guilt there 's no approving sound, — 

But, ever heard, with fearful roll, 

Stern truth's rebukes are echoing round : 

And ever deeper is their moan, 

As conscience feels the voice her own. 

Speak kindly to the little child, 

Lest from his heart you drive away 
The light of love, whose visions mild 

Are opening like the dawn of day : 
Force not one cloud across the heaven 
A God of love to him hath given. 

Speak kindly to each fallen one, 

Nor harshly judge his sinful deed; 
There lives no soul beneath the sun 

That does not of compassion need ; 
Our race is erring at the best, 
And judgment is not thy behest. 

0, who can tell temptation's power, 
Upon poor souls that yield to wrong ? 

Where one may see the storm-clouds lower, 
Another hears a siren song. 

My spirit loves the wind-god's wail, 

But thine may shudder at the gale. 

The soul is but a waiting lyre, 

Whose deep vibrations varied are, 
Each answering to its quivering wire, 

And to the force its touches bear : 
Not careless, then, your hands should stray, 
For fearful is the harp ye play. 



EXERCISE LV. 
THE COMING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

Behold! they come — those sainted forms, 
Unshaken, through the strife of storms ; 
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, 
And earth puts on its rudest frown ; 



228 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But colder, ruder, was the hand 
That drove them from their own fair land, — 
Their own fair land, refinement's chosen seat, 
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat ; 
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned, 
For all, but gentle charity, renowned. 

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart, 
Even from that land they dared to part, 

And burst each tender tie ; 
Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed, 
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last, 

In peaceful age, to die ; 
Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned, 

Their fathers' hallowed graves, 
And to a world of darkness turned, 

Beyond a world of waves. 
# # # # # # 

They come — that coming who shall tell? 
The eye may weep, the heart may swell, 
But the poor tongue in vain essays 
A fitting note for them to raise. 
We hear the after-shout that rings 
For them who smote the power of kings : 
The swelling triumph all would share ; 
But who the dark defeat would dare, 
And boldly meet the wrath and woe 
That wait the unsuccessful blow ? 

It were an envied fate, we deem, 

To live a land's recorded theme, 
When we are in the tomb : 

We, too, might yield the joys of home, 

And waves of winter darkness roam, 
And tread a shore of gloom, — 

Knew we, those waves, through coming time 

Should roll our names to every clime ; 

Felt we, that millions on that shore 

Should stand, our memory to adore. 

But no glad vision burst in light 

Upon the pilgrims' aching sight ; 

Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; 

Deep shadows veiled the way they held ; 
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, 
Their monument, a grave without a name. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 229 

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, 

On yonder ice-bound rock, 
Stern and resolved, that faithful band, 

To meet fate's rudest shock. 
Though anguish rends the father's breast, 
For them, his dearest and his best, 

With him the waste who trod, — 
Though tears, that freeze, the mother sheds 
Upon her children's houseless heads v — 

The Christian turns to God ! 

In grateful adoration now, 

Upon the barren sands they bow. 

What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer 

As bursts in desolation there ? 

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power 

As waits to crown that feeble hour ? 
There into life an infant empire springs ! 

There falls the iron from the soul ; 

There liberty's young accents roll 
Up to the King of kings ! 

To fair creation's farthest bound 

That thrilling summons yet shall sound; 

The dreaming nations shall awake, 
And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake ! 
Pontiff and prince, your sway 
Must crumble from that day ! 

Before the loftier throne of heaven, 

The hand is raised, the pledge is given — 
One monarch to obey, one creed to own, — 
That monarch, God, — that creed, his Word alone. 

Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; 
A zeal like this what pious legends tell ? 
On kingdoms built 
In blood and guilt, 
The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell ; 
But what exploit with theirs shall page, 

Who rose to bless their kind, — 
Who left their nation and their age, 
Man's spirit to unbind ? 
20 



230 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Who boundless seas passed o'er, 
And boldly met, in every path, 
Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, 
To dedicate a shore, 
Where piety's meek train might breathe their vow, 
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; 
Where liberty's glad race might proudly come, 
And set up there an everlasting home ! 



EXERCISE LVI. 
OLD IRONSIDES. 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high ; 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, — once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, — 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh ! better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave : 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, — 

The lightning and the gale ! 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKEK. 231 

EXERCISE LVII. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TURKISH CAPITAN PASHAW's FLAG- 
SHIP, BY THE GREEK PATRIOT, KANARIS. 

" Kanaris had come to avenge the blood of Scio." 

Howe's Greek Revolution. 

He came, — but not with trumpet note, 

With shout, or martial tread, — 

Nor bellowed from the cannon's throat 

War's thunder-tones of dread; 

But silent, slowly, on the sea, 

Crept his bark, unnoticed, free. 

He came, — some trusty souls, but few, 

Composed his warriors, tried and true ; 

Each heart was one of freedom's links, 

Knit with such patriotic art, 

That where in flames the crescent sinks — 

There moves one hand and beats one heart. 

His eye has caught upon the tide, 
Dotting the bay from side to side, 
The Turkish lanthorns, burning dim 
From the seeming lengthened line, 
Rising dark, and frowning grim, 
In deepening shadows on the brine ; 
The first are gained — are left astern, — 
What meaneth he ? His feet are set, 
If but one eye upon him turn, 
Deep in destruction's circling net. 
Heavier seemed each Turkish eye 
To sleep, as passed Kanaris by. 

'T was no ignoble prey he sought, — 
Would such for Scio's blood atone ? 
The torch of vengeance he had brought, 
And he would yield it to its own. 
On, on, he kept, and dauntless steered, 
To where the Pashaw's huger hulk 
Rose mid the others, as he neared, 
In towering, un wieldly bulk. 
There Scio's tyrant slept, to dream 
Of spoil and beauty to be won — 
" It is thy last, most harmless scheme, — 
Sleep on, thy race is nearly run." 



232 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

It chanced a gentle slumber fell 

Upon the Turkish sentinel. 

He dreamed the dream of home and love ; 

Its visions in their brightness past, 

As gilded clouds in ether move — 

Sweetest and swiftest — 't was his last ; — 

He woke to curse his lot, and see 

How differed dull reality. 

Here was the deck — he turned away, 

In gloomy thought, upon the bay. 

This is no dream ! — he rubs his eyes, 
Now opening with real surprise — 
There glistened, in the moon's broad light, 
A tiny sail of spotless white, 
Like sea-bird, skimming o'er the foam 
To ocean rock, its distant home. 
As drew the mimic vessel near, 
Suspicion swelled to certain fear ; 
He saw in her destruction's blaze — 
Discharged a hasty random shot, 
And loud as terror's throat could raise 
The cry, he yelled, — " Brulott, Brulott !" * 

That cry ! — a thousand Moslems start, 
As death's cold hand were on each heart ; 
Each to his feet in terror sprang, 
Ere twice that fatal warning rang ! — 
Each voice prolonged that fearful yell, 
Sounding as from the pit of hell 
When the rebellious spirits fell ! 

A few, whom terror might not quell, 
Fired on the approaching infidel, 
Who, calm, and terrible in will, 
Though known, bore down upon them still. 
Nor threat, nor curse, nor cannon's force, 
Could change a hair his onward course ; 
Though crashed the solid wood beneath 
The iron messengers of death — 
Unharmed he stood — his left hand clasped 
A torch — the helm, the other grasped ; 

* Brulotta, — Turkish for fire-ship. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 233 

Alone, yet mighty, as the form 

Of mountain wrapt in cloud and storm. 

Hushed every lip ! — that crash ! — it told 

The fire ship's unshaken hold. 

As deadly as the adder's fang 

Its grapples buried in the side 

Of the huge ship, which felt the pang, 

And, conscious, quivered on the tide. 

Then louder rose the unearthly din — 

Prayer, shriek, and curse, all mingling in ; 

Then sprang each Grecian form, untouched, 

From the low bulwarks where they crouched ; 

Their boat is ready — they remain 

An instant more, till fired the train. 

Then rose that fearful battle-cry, 

Freezing with fear each Moslem soul, 

As through them all its accents roll, — 

Einai Kanaris — It is I ! " 

Nor died the echo of that name 

Ere shot to heaven the avenging flame ! 

A frightful scene that deck beheld ! — 

The fire was raging fierce, unquelled, 

Falling in scorching showers, as stay, 

And sail, and rope, were burnt away ; 

Making each horror still more clear, 

And adding ghastliness to fear. 

All laws, all order, then expire, 

And every fear, but that of fire ; 

Some meet at once a dreadful fate, 

Trampled beneath their comrades' weight ; 

Whose cry, " The boats ! — for life ! — for life ' " 

They gain them — while, in furious strife, 

A boat is lowered — sinks — the moan, 

The bubbling cry for help, alone 

Told that the strong, the weak, the brave, 

And coward, found one common grave! 

Where was the Pashaw ? In that hour, 
Though tamed and humbled in his power, 
Around him clung some slavish few, 
Whom fear, more than respect, made true. 
20* 



234 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

They plan for safety ; at his word 

Forth from the scabbard leapt each sword, — 

" Gain we yon boat," he cried, aloud; 

" Spare not ; cut down the opposing crowd ! " 
As falls the grain, in harvest-fields, 
Before the blade's keen edge, it yields. 
They gained it through a bloody way, 
Then kept the desperate mass at bay ; 
But e'en till on its deck they stood, 
Their swords were dripping Turkish blood. 

Of those a little longer left, 

Some of reason, hope, bereft, 

Cursed God and man, and, springing wide, 

Leapt maddened in the gleaming tide. 

Cumbered with many a swimmer's clasp, 
Whose strength retained a deadly grasp, 
The Pashaw's heavy laden boat 
Barely on the wave would float. 
Ill brooked he then such rash delay, 
But shouted, " Cut them from their hold ! 
By Allah ! madness 't were to stay — 
Strike ! — strike, you slaves ! " — the wretches rolled, 
Deprived of head, or hand, and sunk, 
Each a senseless, quivering trunk. 
" An instant more, and we are free, 
Upon the unincumbered sea, — 
Now, by our holy Prophet, speed ! 
Gain any port in such a need !" 

'T was here the tyrant and his crew 

Paid the debt to vengeance due. 

By chance he gazed upon his ship — 

A curse died still-born on his lip — 

Appeared to sway the fiery sky, 

So rocked the flame-wrapt mast on high. 

He guessed at once its deadly aim, 

Half breathed in prayer the Prophet's name ; 

It crashed ! — before his vision swim 

Unnumbered deaths — then all grew dim ; 

While, quick as terror drew its breath, 

Came down the red right arm of death ; 

Some stifled shrieks, a sullen swell, 

Told where its utmost vensreance fell. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 235 

As slowly closed above their grave 
The vast, illuminated wave, 
Naught but broken, scattered wood — 
A corse or two up"on the tide, — 
Bare and scanty records stood 
That they had lived or died ! 



EXERCISE LVIII. 
THE FARMER'S SONG. 

I envy not the mighty king 

Upon his splendid throne — 
Nor crave his glittering diadem, 

Nor wish his power my own ; 
For though his power and wealth be great, 

And thousands round him bow, 
In reverence — in my low state 

More solid peace I know. 

I envy not the miser; — he 

May tell his treasures o'er, 
May heaps on heaps around him see, 

And toil and sigh for more : 
I 'd scorn his narrow, sordid soul, 

Rapacious and unjust ; 
Nor bow beneath the base control 

Of empty gilded dust. 

My wants are few, and well supplied 

By my productive fields ; 
I court no luxuries beside, 

Save what contentment yields. 
More pure enjoyment labor gives 

Than wealth or fame can bring, 
And he is happier who lives 

A farmer, than a king. 

EXERCISE LIX. 
EPILOGUE. 

Our parts are performed, and our speeches are ended, — 
We are monarchs, and courtiers, and heroes, no more ; 

To a much humbler station again we 've descended, 

And are now but the schoolboys you 've known us before. 



236 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



Farewell, then, our greatness ! — 'tis gone like a dream; 

'T is gone — but remembrance will often retrace 
The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme, 

And the heart-cheering smiles thai enlivened each face. 

We thank you ! — our gratitude words cannot tell, 

But deeply we feel it — to you it belongs ; 
With heartfelt emotion, we bid you farewell, 

And our feelings now thank you much more than our 
tongues. 

We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us, 
That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks ; 

And we hope to convince you, the next time you hear us, 
That praise has but sharpened our relish for books. 



EXERCISE LX. 

ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 

Good people all, with one accord, 
Lament for Madam Blaize ; 

Who never wanted a good word, — 
From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy, seldom passed her door, 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor, — 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please 
With manner wondrous winning ; 

And never followed wicked ways, — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumbered in her pew, — 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 
By twenty beaux, and more ; 

The king himself has followed her, — 
When she has walked before. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 237 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all, 
Her doctors found, when she was dead, — 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore ; 

For Kent-street well may say, 
That had she lived a twelvemonth more, — 

She had not died to-day. 



EXERCISE LXI. 
THE LIFE-BOAT ; OR, THE WRECK ON THE BLACK MIDDENS. 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! see yon bark ! 

She drives before the wind — 
The rock 's ahead — and, loud and dark, 

The raging storm behind ! 
No human power, in such an hour, 

Can avert the doom that's o'er her; 
See ! the main-mast's gone, and she still drives on, 

To the yawning gulf before her : 
The life-boat ! man the life-boat ! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! hark ! — the gun, 

That thunders through the air ! 
And see — the signal flag flies on, 

The emblem of despair ! 
The forked flash, that pealing crash, 

Seemed from the wave to sweep her ; 
Ha ! the ship has struck ! — she 's upon the rock ! — 

And the wail comes louder and deeper: 
The life-boat ! man the life-boat ! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! see — the crew 

Gaze on their watery grave : 
Already some — a gallant few — 

Are battling with the wave ; 
And one there stands and wrings his hands, 

As thoughts of home come o'er him : 
For his wife and child, through the tempest wild, 

He sees on the heights before him. 
The life-boat ! man the life-boat ! 



238 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Speed, speed the life-boat ! — off she goes ! 

And as they pulled the oar, 
From shore and ship a shout arose, 

That startled ship and shore : 
Life-saving ark ! yon doomed bark 

Has immortal souls within her ; 
More than gems or gold, is tbe wealth untold 

Thou 'It save, if thou canst but win her : 
The life-boat ! speed the life-boat ! 

Hurrah ! the life-boat dashes on ! 

The Middens darkly frown ; 
The rock is there — the ship is gone, 

Full twenty fathoms down ; 
But desperate men were battling then, 

With the billows, single-handed ; — 
They are all in the boat ! — hurrah ! they 're afloat 

And now they are safely landed : 
Hurrah ! hurrah for the life-boat ! 



EXERCISE LX1I. 
THE FLOWER BOY. 

[A Juvenile Recitation, with a Basket of Flowers.'] 

Come ladies, I've roses and posies to sell; 
I 'm tbe flower boy known hereabouts very well ; 
To my sweet daily task I am constant and true, 
And I gather my flowers while wet with the dew. 

Just look how they sparkle with the bright morning gem ! 
So nicely bunched up, too, — not one broken stem ; 
They '11 keep fresh and fragrant, I 'm sure, the day through 
Only buy a few bunches, dear ladies, pray do. 

Come buy my primroses and lilies so fair — 

Only see — what a sweet little bunch I have there ! 

I have all sorts of nosegays, to suit every one, — 

From the shade, paly-flowers — some bright from the sun. 

Humble Miss, here are lilies, and violets too, — 
They are meek, lowly flowers, just suited to you : 
This half-opened bud, too, has something to say — 
" Be modest, retiring, — though cheerful and gay." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER, 239 

Here 's the hide-away cowslip; you 'd know its sweet breath 
Without looking for it, to twine in your wreath. 
Ah ! good-humored lady — so merry and gay — 
This bunch will suit you: what a splendid display ! 

Double roses, and scarlet bells, mixed with bright green, 
With sweet yellow jessamine peeping between ! 
Only see the moss-rose-buds, and wild flowers, too ! 
Come, ladies, for charity's sake, buy a few. 

I 've fragrant sweet-brier, and here 's mignionette, 
'T is the freshest and sweetest you 've ever seen yet ; 
Morning glories, and stars, scarlet runners so gay, 
For those who rise early and are busy all day. 

For the careless and idle I 've a sly, cunning gift, 
'Tis bunches of hops, mixed with speed-well and thrift ; 
By way of reproof, too, — just to give them a hunch, — 
Trumpet creepers and sloe-berries, all in one bunch ! 

For the fretful and headstrong, only see what a show ! 
Tiger lilies, passion flowers, and snap-dragons too ! 
With snow-balls and snow-drops, for keeping them cool, — 
'T is as much as to say, never let passion rule. 

For gad-about gossips in other folk's matters, 

Here 's touch-me-not, thistles, and loose-strife, and medlars. 

Young spinsters of fifty I think I could please, 

With love-lies-a-bleeding, and sprigs of heart's ease ; 

Some teasing fine coxcomb, with sweet williams, gay, 

Sweet balm, johnny-jumpers, and bob-run-away ! 

For young men of forty, here 's a bunch that would do, 
A bright marigold, with a blue-bell or two — 
Or a few ladies' tresses, their hearts to ensnare, 
And a sweet polyanthus, with bright golden hair. 

Ragged-ladies, romantic vines, fly-traps, and old-maid, 
With jump-up-and-kiss-me, in purple arrayed ! 
Ladies-slippers, and tulips of every bright hue, 
And forget-me-nots, smiling in bonnets of blue ! 

Then bachelor's-buttons, with ladies in green, 
With rue, and some bitter-sweet, bunched in between : 
And if these will not suit him, I 've something more yet, 
A little rose-mary, and a great bouncing-bet ! 



240 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

For pert, forward Misses, I 've all sorts of stocks, 

With flowers of elders, and a little green-box ! 

For a neat, sprighty girl, then — what would you think 

Of that bunch of white lack-spice, with a rose and a pink ? 

For patriots, I think I 've a bunch that will do, — 
Some flaunting night-rockets, with flags red and blue. 
To please our young patriots, too, I will try, 
Here are plenty of flag for the Fourth of July ! 

For members of Congress, your stentors so tough, 
I am sure I have throat-wort and lung-wort enough ; 
For stock-jobbers, too, here 's a bunch gives a hint, 
Some fine golden crowns, with plenty of mint. 

For studious young Misses, who love much to learn, 
I 've ever-green laurels, with thyme, sage, and fern. 
For your regular folks, sun-flowers and phlox, 
With evening primroses, and bright four o'clocks. 

I 've bright crown imperials, for such as tell truth, 
And flowers immortal, for virtuous youth. 
For such as look forward to Eden's pure bowers, 
Here are evergreens changeless, and amaranth flowers. 

For Sunday School children — ye high favored youth, 
So blest in the sunshine of heavenly truth ! 
I 've branches of palm, with Lebanon's pride, 
With the fir, and the boxwood, and the myrtle beside. 

The lily of the valley, in purple arrayed, 

With the sweet rose of Sharon, in glory displayed ! 

I 've a great many more of each different sort, 

By their name and their nature some moral is taught. 

The language of flowers has bright things to say ; 
I wish you would take a short lesson to-day. 
Come buy my sweet posies ; 't will charity be ; 
'T will help my old dad, and will surely suit me. 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXIII. 
THE INQUIRY. 

Tell me, ye winged winds, 
That round my pathway roar, 
Do ye not know some spot 
"Where mortals weep no more ? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 
Some valley in the west, 
Where, free from toil and pain, 
The weary soul may rest ? 
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 
And sighed for pity, as it answered, " No !" 

Tell me, thou mighty deep, 
Whose billows round me play, 
Knowest thou some favored spot, 
Some island far away, 
Where weary man may find 
The bliss for which he sighs, 
Where sorrow never lives, 
And friendship never dies ? 
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, 
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer, " No 

And thou, serenest moon, 
That with such holy face 
Dost look down upon the earth, 
Asleep in night's embrace — 
Tell me, in all thy round, 
Hast thou not seen some spot, 
Where miserable man 
Might find a happier lot ? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
And a sweet voice, but sad, responded, " No !" 

Tell me, my sacred soul ; 
Oh ! tell me, hope and faith, 
Is there no resting place 
From sorrow, sin, and death ? 
21 



241 



242 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Is there no happy spot, 

Where mortals may be blessed, 

Where grief may find a balm, 

And weariness a rest ? 
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given, 
Waved their bright wings, and answered, " Yes, in Heaven !" 



EXERCISE LXIV. 
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAM0UNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause, 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form' 
Rise st from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above, 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy, — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness all the night, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 243 

And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, — 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald, wake ! O wake ! and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered, and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
And who commanded, — and the silence came, — 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! — 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — 
God ! " let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, " God ! " 
1 God ! " sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, " God!" 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth " God," and fill the hills with praise ! 

T^ ^ v£* # ^ ^ 3fc 



244 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXV. 
THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND. 

A poor wayfaring man of grief 

Has often crossed me on my way, 
And sued so humbly for relief, 

That I could never answer " Nay :" 
I had not power to ask his name, 
Whither he went, or whence he came, — 
Yet was there something in his eye, 
That won my love, I knew not why. 

Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 
He entered ; not a word he spake ; 

Just perishing for want of bread ; 
I gave him all ; he blessed it, brake, 

And ate, — but gave me part again; 

Mine was an angel's portion then, 

For while I fed with eager haste, 

That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied him where a fountain burst 

Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ; 

The heedless water mocked his thirst ; 
He heard it, saw it hurrying on ; 

I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 

Thrice from the stream he drained my cup, 

Dipped, and returned it running o'er ; 

I drank, and never thirsted more. 

'T was night ; the floods were out ; it blew 

A winter hurricane aloof; 
I heard his voice abroad, and flew 

To bid him welcome to my roof; 
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, — 
Laid him on my couch to rest ; 
Then made the hearth my bed, and seemed 
In Eden's garden while I dreamed. 

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, 
I found him by the highway side ; 

I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, 
Revived his spirit, and supplied 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 245 

Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was healed ; 
I had myself a wound concealed, — 
But from that hour forgot the smart, 
And peace bound up my broken heart. 

In prison I saw him next, condemned 

To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, 

And honored him midst shame and scorn : 
My friendship's utmost zeal to try, 
He asked, if I for him would die ; 
The flesh was weak, — my blood ran chill, — 
But the free spirit cried, " I will." 

Then in a moment to my view 

The stranger darted from disguise, — 
The tokens in his hands I knew, — 

My Saviour stood before mine eyes ! 
He spake ; and my poor name he named : 
Of me thou hast not been ashamed : 
These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 
Fear not, thou didst them unto me." 



EXERCISE LXVT. 



There 's nought which can the mind allay, 
When threatening storms portentous roll, 

Or can the mighty current stay, 

Which sweeps its waters o'er the soul, 

Like Hope, sweet messenger of love, 

Which doth our deepest feelings move. 

When melancholy comes like night, 
And casts its shadows o'er the mind ; 

When grief advances like a blight, 
And sadness follows on behind ; 

Ah ! then it is that Hope shines bright, 

And paints the future for our sight. 

When friends desert, and kind ones chide, 
And all bespeak of coming woe, — 

When envy pours its darkest tide, 
The purity of heart to flow ; 

21* 



246 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Oh ! then comes Hope, a beaming star, 
Whose kindly rays shine from afar ! 

When the proud youth by poverty 
Is bowed in spirit down to earth, 

What is it bids his pinions try 

And 'scape the overwhelming dearth, 

But Hope, which, like a fancied dream, 

Pours o'er his soul her silvery stream. 

When all that Hope has painted bright, — 
Her fancied wealth, and promised fame, — 

Do disappoint our ardent sight, 

And quench ambition's burning flame, 

E'en then she shows her deepest power, 

And bears us through the trying hour." 

When Death her seal stamps on the brow, 
And all the soul has sought to win 

O'erwhelm the mind in anguish now, 
And all is bitterness within, — 

Oh, then comes Hope, and points him where 

His home shall be surpassing fair. 



EXERCISE LXVII. 



The songs of freedom long have pealed 

Above our hills and plains, 
And nature loves to sympathize, 

And echo back their strains. 
Man ne'er was made to waste beneath 

A cruel despot's sway, 
To shrink with terror at his word, 

And his false laws obey. 

Ye nations, that in bondage writhe, 

Assert the bold decree, 
That liberty was made for all, 

And ye will now be free ! 
Strike off the fetters from your limbs, 

And plant your standard fair 
Upon the rock of liberty, 

To wave forever there ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 247 

America, blest land! has found 

The boon ye well may crave ; . 
And may our western breezes bear 

Its influence o'er the wave, 
Till Europe's sons shall proudly rise, 

And crush the tyrant's power, 
And dissipate the threatening clouds, 

That now above her lower ! 

And let their song of triumph be, 

Long live fair Freedom's cause ! — 
Long live the power that deigned to crush 

The despot's unjust laws ! 
Then man shall learn to know mankind, 

And knowledge shall increase, 
And nations prize the precious gifts 

Of liberty and peace. 



EXERCISE LXVIII. 
THE ORPHAN'S SONG. 

Oh ! lady, buy these budding flowers, 

For I am sad, and wet, and weary. 
I gathered them ere break of day, 

When all was lonely, still, and dreary: 
And long I 've sought to sell them here, 

To purchase clothes, and food, and dwelling, 
For Valor's wretched orphan girls — 

Poor me, and my young sister Ellen. 

Ah ! those who tread life's thornless way, 

In fortune's golden sunshine basking, 
May deem my wants require no aid, 

Because my lips are mute, unasking ; 
They have no heart for woes like mine ; 

Each word, each look, is cold — repelling; 
Yet once a crowd of flatterers fawned, 

And fortune smiled on me and Ellen ! 

Oh ! buy my flowers ; they 're fair and fresh 
As mine and morning's tears could keep them ! 

To-morrow's sun shall see them dead, 
And I shall scarcely live to weep them ! 



248 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Yet this sweet bud, if nursed with care, 
Soon into fulness would be swelling; 

And, nurtured by some generous hand, 
So might my little sister Ellen ! 

She 's sleeping in the hollow tree, 

Her only home — its leaves her bedding; 
And I 've no food to carry there, 

To soothe the tears which she '11 be shedding. 
Oh ! that those mourners' tears which fall, 

That bell which heavily is knelling, 
And that deep grave, were meant for me, 

And my poor little sister Ellen ! 

When we in silence are laid down 

In life's last fearless, blessed sleeping, 
No tears will fall upon our grave, 

Save those of pitying Heaven's own weeping. 
Unknown we 've lived, unknown must die ; 

No tongue the mournful tale be telling 
Of two young, broken-hearted girls — 

Poor Mary and her sister Ellen ! 

No one has bought of me to-day, 

And night is now the town o'ershading ; 
And I, like these poor drooping flowers, 

Unnoticed and unwept, am fading ; 
My soul is struggling to be free — 

It loathes its wretched earthly dwelling ! 
My limbs refuse to bear their load — 

Oh God, protect lone orphan Ellen ! 



EXERCISE LXVIII. 
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 

Wake your harp's music ! — louder, — higher, 

And pour your strains along ; 
And smite again each quivering wire, 

In all the pride of song ! 
Shout like those godlike men of old, 

Who, daring storm and foe, 
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled, 

Two hundred years ago ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 249 

From native shores by tempests driven, 

They sought a purer sky, 
And found, beneath a milder heaven, 

The home of liberty ! 
An altar rose, — and prayers, — a ray 

Broke on their night of woe, — 
The harbinger of Freedom's day, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

They clung around that symbol too, 

Their refuge and their all ; 
And swore, while skies and waves were blue, 

That altar should not fall ! 
They stood upon the red man's sod, 

'Neath heaven's unpillared bow, 
With home — a country, and a God, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

Oh ! 'twas a hard, unyielding fate 

That drove them to the seas, 
And Persecution strove with Hate, 

To darken her decrees : 
But safe, above each coral grave, 

Each blooming ship did go, — 
A God was on the western wave, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

They knelt them on the desert sand, 

By waters cold and rude, 
Alone upon the dreary strand 

Of oceaned solitude ! 
They looked upon the high blue air, 

And felt their spirits glow, 
Resolved to live or perish there, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

The warrior's red right arm was bared, 

His eyes flashed deep and wild : 
Was there a foreign footstep dared 

To seek his home and child ? 
The dark chiefs yelled alarm,— and swore 

The white man's blood should flow, 
And his hewn bones should bleach their shore, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 



250 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But lo ! the warrior's eye grew dim, — 

His arm was left alone; — 
The still, black wilds which sheltered him, 

No longer were his own ! 
Time fled, — and on the hallowed ground 

His highest pine lies low, — 
And cities swell where forests frowned, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

Oh ! stay not to recount the tale, — 

'T was bloody, and 't is past ; 
The firmest cheek might well grow pale, 

To hear it to the last. 
The God of heaven, who prospers us, 

Could bid a nation grow, 
And shield us from the red man's curse, 
I Two hundred years ago ! 

Come, then, — great shades of glorious men, 

From your still glorious grave ! 
Look on your own proud land again, 

O bravest of the brave ! 
We call you from each mouldering tomb, 

And each blue wave below, 
To bless the world ye snatched from doom, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

Then to your harps ! — yet louder, — higher, 

And pour your strains along, — 
And smite again each quivering wire, 

In all the pride of song ! 
Shout for those godlike men of old, 

Who, daring storm and foe, 
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled, 

Two hundred years ago ! 



EXERCISE LXLX. 
A LEGEND. 



The hunter went forth, with his dog and gun. 
In the earliest glow of the golden sun ; 
The trees of the forest bent over his way, 
In the changeful colors of autumn gay ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 251 

For a frost had fallen, the night before, 

On the quiet greenness which nature wore : — 

A bitter frost! — for the night was chill, 
And starry and dark, and the wind was still"; 
And so, when the sun looked out on the hills, 
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills, 
The unvaried green of the landscape fled, 
And a wild, rich robe was given instead. 

We know not whither the hunter went, 

Or how the last of his days was spent ; 

For the noon drew nigh ; but he came not back, 

Weary and faint, from his forest-track ; 

And his wife sat down to her frugal board, 

Beside the empty seat of her lord. 

And the day passed on, and the sun came down 
To the hills of the west like an angel's crown ; 
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill, 
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill, 
Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled 
All over the west, like a wave of gold. 

Yet he came not back — though the stars gave forth 

Their wizard light to the silent earth ; 

And his wife looked out from the lattice dim, 

In the earnest manner of fear, for him ; 

And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood 

To welcome his father back from the wood ! 

He came not back — yet they found him soon, 
In the burning light of the morrow's noon, 
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death, 
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath ; 
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet, 
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet. 

He slept in death ! — but his sleep was one 

Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon: 

For his brow was black, and his open eye 

Was red with the sign of agony ; — 

And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, 

That an evil deed had been done on him. 



252 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

They buried him where his fathers laid, 
By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade ; 
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead, 
And beldames muttered while prayers were said ; 
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed 
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast. 

The seasons passed ; and the autumn rain 
And the colored forest returned again : 
'T was the very eve that the hunter died ; 
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side, 
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook 
Their red leaves over the swollen brook. 

There came a sound on the night-air then, 

Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men ; 

And louder and shriller it rose again, 

Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain ; 

And trembled alike the timid and brave, 

For they knew that it came from the hunter's grave ! 

And, every year, when autumn flings 
Its beautiful robe on created things, 
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain, 
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again, 
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth, 
Like the howl of a demon, struggling forth ! 



T 1G 7 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Nov. 2007 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 



